


We held gold dust in our hands

by Gara_x



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Crying, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean like a LOT of angst, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rape, Self-Harm, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Yennefer helps out, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gara_x/pseuds/Gara_x
Summary: Five years have passed since Geralt chased Jaskier away.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 288
Kudos: 1157





	1. You Left Me

**Author's Note:**

> If they made this fic into a movie:  
>   
> So I set out to write a fix-it fic and I may have made it a lot worse
> 
> Title is from the song Gold Dust by Tori Amos
> 
> Please read the tags, rough times ahead so look after yourselves <3

It had been five years since Geralt had voiced it. _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._ Destiny had been cruel as always, and decided to listen, for once; Geralt hadn’t seen Jaskier since, another fuck-up to add to the long list he already had to boast about. Butcher of Blaviken, mutant, fool who never should have dragged anyone else into his messes. Geralt of Rivia - Geralt of _nowhere_ \- should have known better. 

At first, the poet had been annoying, but then Geralt had gotten used to his constant chatter. Had learned to interpret his moods by his flow of words, and to anticipate when his mouth would land him in trouble. Even when Geralt had punched him in the gut, he hadn't really put any strength behind it. Being annoyed by Jaskier, telling Jaskier to shut up, protecting Jaskier - it allowed Geralt a break from travelling alone, with only Roach and his thoughts and the open road ahead. The endless give and take of monsters and coin. 

Of course, Geralt had regretted what he’d said to Jaskier straight away, and set out to find him. But on the trail he’d been stopped by a drunk who had offered him a large sum of coin for a contract, a monster Geralt soon realised was most likely a gravier. By the time he'd managed to pry all the details from the old man who smelled like he'd downed an entire distillery, Geralt had reached the bottom of the mountain only to find that the bard was gone.

At the time, he’d decided that a break might do them both good. He would kill the gravier without putting Jaskier in danger, collect the coin, and then catch up with him in the next town. Apologise. Travel together for a while, maybe even let him ride on Roach. He kept thinking about Jaskier's suggestion to take a break, and he could almost imagine it. But their destiny didn’t turn out that way. 

The bard sat alone in a corner, toying with a mug of ale. He had aged since that day on the mountain; Geralt noticed that a few stray wrinkles had appeared on his face, and he had dark circles under his eyes. A few papers were strewn across the table, his bag on the chair next to him, a wooden stick resting against the chair. His ever-present lute was nowhere in sight, and he looked lost in thought as he stared into his mug. Geralt frowned. He approached the table quietly.

‘Hi,’ Geralt said, and Jaskier flinched so hard he spilled some of his ale. ‘Did I scare you?’ he teased. 

Jaskier stayed very still and carefully lowered his ale. After a long moment, he lifted his head and their eyes met. Geralt watched the emotions play across Jaskier’s face: a flash of hurt that sent a dagger through Geralt’s stomach, then hot, fiery anger, and then cool resolve. 

‘Jask-‘ Geralt did not finish saying his name before the bard stood up and slapped him decisively across the face. 

It didn’t hurt, but there was enough of a sting to it to let him know that Jaskier had meant it. Geralt’s mouth hung slightly open in surprise while Jaskier started gathering his things. In another life, Jaskier might have teased him and gloated about managing to land a blow. Now, there was only stony silence. Geralt had known the bard might still be angry with him, but he hadn’t expected this response. 

As Jaskier tried to move away, Geralt caught his wrist. Jaskier looked furious, and tried to hit him again; this time Geralt was prepared, and caught his hand as soon as he’d lifted it. 

‘Let go of me, Geralt, or Melitele help me I will -’ Jaskier hissed.

‘What? Slap me again?’ Geralt finished, with the hint of a smile. Apparently this was the wrong thing to say, because Jaskier looked absolutely murderous.

‘I know everything is a joke to you, and you witchers pride yourselves on being complex and broody and - emotionally stunted, frankly - but I don’t have to put up with this. So kindly release me and fuck off back to… whatever it was you were doing before you chose to disturb my evening.’

Geralt was silent. He hadn’t known what to say if he ever saw Jaskier again. He wanted to apologise, but Jaskier was evidently not in the mood to hear it. They had argued before, and they'd teased each other, and fallen back into their comfortable rhythm. Why wasn't it working, this time? Had he gone too far, pushed the poet away for too long?

Jaskier looked down expectantly at the hands holding both his wrists, and when Geralt followed his gaze he noticed a few old and new bruises, in various shades of yellow and purple. He immediately loosened his grip on Jaskier’s wrists, running his thumb gently over an ugly purple spot. His stomach dropped.

Jaskier inhaled sharply, and tried pulling his arms away.

‘Who did this?’ Geralt asked. He felt anger rise in his chest, he was going to kill - 

Jaskier closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. ‘Let go, Geralt, _please,_ ’ he said, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. 

Geralt looked at him, feeling helpless, and slowly let go. ‘I’m sorry, Jaskier.’

Jaskier flung his bag across his shoulder and grabbed the stick resting up against the chair, using it to prop himself up as he limped away from Geralt. 

Geralt frowned again and started to follow him. ’Jaskier, what happened to you?’

Jaskier stopped and sighed. He looked tired; all traces of the man who’d just caught him unaware and slapped him melted away. ’Don’t do this, Geralt. You don’t get to waltz back in after five years and try to be funny, and ask questions, and pretend you care to hear the answers. You _left_. I waited at the bottom of that mountain for _hours_ until I realised you weren’t coming, you just left me there, and then you stayed gone. For five fucking years. I’ve been beaten, and locked up, and starved, and r-,’ his breath hitched, ‘and beaten again. I’m fucking _broken._ You can’t fix this, Geralt.’ Tears slid down his cheeks, and he wiped them away furiously. ‘Now, let me pretend I can storm out of this room and leave with my dignity intact. Don’t follow me.’

Geralt wanted to reach for him again, wanted to find the right words, but they didn’t come. He stood frozen to the spot, watching Jaskier limp away. 


	2. I broke you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out a bit about what's happened to Jaskier and it's...not pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: violence, torture, non-consensual kissing and touching, lots of angst
> 
> Thank you all for reading, I'm sorry I keep hurting our Jaskier and promise to make it better ..eventually

Geralt waited for Jaskier to leave the tavern before walking up to the old barmaid. ‘Do you know that bard, the one with the stick?’

The woman laughed unkindly, looking at him without bothering to hide the fact that she took him for a fool. ‘Bard? You've got the wrong man, witcher. Don’t know what tales he’s been telling, but that cripple boy you was talking to is Julian, the mayor’s plaything. He might sing for his supper, but that don't make him no bard.’

'The mayor?' Gerald said. 

The barmaid cocked her head, a smirk etched across her wrinkled face. 'Aye, that's Navid. Been mayor for 'bout a couple of years now. A young thing, always drowning himself in ale and causing trouble. His father was the same, a right old brute. My Malka saw Navid punch that Julian boy right in the mouth one day.' 

Geralt felt his stomach tighten, and slammed his fist down hard against the counter top. 

'Hey!' the woman shouted, pointing a finger at him as though we were a boy caught up in some sort of mischief. 'I am getting far too old and tired to put up with men acting like bairns inside my tavern. Behave yourself, witcher.'

‘Hmm,' Geralt grumbled. 

She frowned, but looked somewhat appeased. 'Anyway, I say to him, go somewhere else why don't ya? Plenty of towns where mayors need errands running. Poor lad, sometimes he don't even react if you slap him upside the head, think he's a little simple.' 

Geralt scowled. 'And where might I find this mayor of yours?' 

'His house is that red one down the alley to the right. My Malka says -'

But Geralt didn't care to hear the rest of it. He turned away from the barmaid and walked swiftly towards the exit.

'Hey, witcher, a haven't finished!' she called after him. 'A pox upon your head,' she muttered when she heard the door slam shut. 

Outside, the air was cold and punishing. Darkness had fallen while he'd been inside the tavern. Geralt could not see where Jaskier had gone, but he could hear the sound his stick made when it hit the ground, and he followed it, staying out of sight until he saw Jaskier's outline in front of him. He saw the red house down the alley, but Jaskier was headed in the opposite direction. Now that he was closer, Geralt could hear him crying quietly, a sound that elicited a painful tightening in Geralt's chest. 

None of it made any sense. Last he'd heard - about four years ago - Jaskier had been happily sleeping his way through Temeria, before getting engaged to a noblewoman. Geralt had started riding north, thinking he would catch up with him; along the way, in taverns there were other bards, who sang his songs and spoke of him. Jaskier was happy, they said; his beloved was a handful, but he loved her dearly, they said. The bards told tales about the noblewoman's dress, and plans for their ceremony.

'I heard that Jaskier himself will sing to her of his shattering, unending love,' a bard in Redania had swooned. 'Hey, you're his friend, Geralt of Rivia, the mighty witcher? Aren't you just so pleased for him?'

Geralt's stomach had done a funny flip, and he had left the tavern in a worse mood than the one he'd entered in.

Though he refused to admit, even to himself, Geralt had been expecting to find Jaskier alone and eager to jump back on the road with him, after that first year spent apart. He'd told himself that mounting Roach one morning to head south and put as much distance between himself and Temeria had nothing to do with Jaskier, or his noblewoman, or his _shattering, unending love_. 

Geralt had heard no more of Jaskier, and told himself that he'd ride north again one day to greet him as an old friend. Their lives were simply different now, but he was not afraid. They would embrace, share stories, Geralt would meet the lady of the house, and then be on his way again, as fitting for a witcher. It would be simple. Four more years passed, and each time there was something new, a monster or a man, something that stopped him from seeking Jaskier out. 

He was afraid. 

Jaskier shook as he left the tavern, moving as quickly as his hip would allow. The shock of seeing Geralt after those five years had made him light-headed, and he leaned more of his weight than usual on his stick. He was still crying, and his ears rang from the rush of his outburst. 

When he got to the other side of the road he looked back, to make sure that Geralt was not following. He was prepared to give the witcher another earful, to grab onto his shirt and shake him, to tell him what he'd been through - 

He couldn't see a thing, and when he listened nothing moved in the stillness of the night other than his heart in his chest. Geralt was not following, and that somehow made everything worse.

Jaskier's breath hitched with a painful sob. He leaned against one of the houses and tried to breathe, knowing that he had to compose himself before getting to the meeting point. He did not want his contact to think he was unhinged and back out of selling him the potion. It had taken the better part of a year to save up enough coin.

When he realised that Geralt was not coming back, that he had likely taken a different path down the mountain to avoid seeing him, Jaskier had been angry. There had been a tavern, and too many ales, and before he knew it he was ranting and raving about Geralt of Rivia, the unfeeling witcher, to anyone who would stand still long enough. Which was how, upon stumbling out of the tavern three sheets to the wind, Jaskier had found himself on the wrong end of a Nilfgaardian sword, pointed at his chest. The young soldier looked him up and down, five others gathering around them.

'Well, hello, good sirs,' Jaskier slurred. 'I'm sure there's no need -' 

The man lifted the sword and rested it under Jaskier's chin, the tip digging into his flesh as a promise.

'I heard you talking,' he said in a smooth voice. 'About Geralt of Rivia.'

'Well, yes, you see, we were travelling together to slay this mighty, mighty beast. I mean, Geralt was doing the slaying and I was doing the singing, of course, except you see, Geralt wasn't looking to actually slay the beast but trying to bed this crazy witch -'

The soldier huffed impatiently and lowered the sword. Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief, until the Nilfgaardian lifted the sword again and struck him with the handle. 

Pain burst in his temple, and he fell to the ground, feeling like he kept falling and falling. 

Jaskier awoke to a throbbing pain in his skull, pulsating behind his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to a dimly lit cell where he was cuffed to the stone wall.

'Good. You're awake,' the smooth voice from before said.

Jaskier squinted to look at the soldiers surrounding him. His memories of the previous day returned. Being attacked, the Nilfgaardian sword, getting plastered on cheap ale because - _Geralt_. His breath caught in his chest at the recollection of Geralt shouting at him. 

'Don't be scared, princess,' the soldier said, misinterpreting his reaction. The others laughed. 'Just tell us where your witcher friend is, and we'll send you on your way.'

'Fuck a goat,' Jaskier said.

'He's a feisty one, Cahir,' another soldier laughed. 

Cahir smiled, a smile that sent chills through Jaskier's spine. He approached Jaskier slowly, still smiling as Jaskier raised his chin to face him, the effect only slightly ruined by the fact that his knees had started to shake. Cahir raised a hand, and Jaskier closed his eyes, only to feel cold fingers trailing across his cheekbone. 

Jaskier opened his eyes tentatively, just in time to see Cahir draw his arm back to deliver a swift punch to the spot he had caressed only moments earlier. Jaskier yelped in pain, and then the others were on him, kicking and punching and tearing at his clothes. He tried tucking his head into his chest to protect his face, but one of the men held him up by his hair and he took several more punches. He could taste blood, and felt it dribbling down his chin.

'Tell me where that witcher is,' Cahir shouted over the sound of a scream that Jaskier took a few moments to realise had been coming from his own mouth.

'I don't know!' Jaskier said, bracing himself for the punch to his collarbone. 'F-fuck, I don't know! He left me, he's gone,' he admitted, staring into the corner of his cell to get rid of the sting in his eyes, because he was not about to cry in front of Nilfgaard. Geralt had left him, he was not privy to his plans after that. Probably chasing after his sorceress. Jaskier closed his eyes, and wondered whether Geralt would hear about his death and feel guilty. 'He left, he left, he l-left,' Jaskier repeated angrily, biting his already bloody and bruised lips. 

Unimpressed with this confession, the soldiers rained several more punches and kicks down on him. Jaskier coughed, choking on his own blood, which was now coming down fast from his nose. 

'Fuck, you fuckers... Ok!' Jaskier cried out. 'O- ok - fuck,' he yelled as someone kicked in the ribs. 'I'll tell you. I'll tell you!'

Cahir motioned to his fellow men to stop. The one who held a fistful of Jaskier's hair and was about to punch him again looked disgusted, and let him slump forward in his restraints.

'Tell me, poet. I haven't got all night,' Cahir said.

'Come closer,' Jaskier said, struggling to catch his breath and stand up to release the pressure on his shoulders. The Nilfgaardian approached, and Jaskier leaned forward to whisper in his ear. 'You smell like you've already fucked that goat,' he said, and screamed when the soldier kneed him in the stomach. 

The next time Jaskier regained consciousness, he lay naked on the floor of the cell, his arms released from their restraints. He tried to sit up and immediately fell back down, crying in pain. His whole body ached, and it hurt to even breathe too deeply. He slowly pressed himself against the wall, trying to take small, shallow breaths. A bowl of water and a dry piece of bread had been left next to the cell door, and it was hours before Jaskier managed to painfully drag himself over.

He was in and out of sleep, losing track of how much time had passed. Geralt came to him in his dreams. Sometimes it was to apologise, to hold him in his arms the way Jaskier had spent sleepless nights imagining when they travelled together. He could almost feel Geralt's warmth against his back, the arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Other times Geralt yelled again, berating Jaskier for his existence as the scene atop the mountain repeated over and over and over again. Then he dreamed of Cahir beating him, Cahir's fist turning into Geralt's, Geralt holding him down -

Jaskier woke with a start and tried to shake off that last image. He was drenched in sweat, naked body shaking against the cold stone floor. He hissed in pain but slowly dragged himself into a sitting position, using the cell wall for support. From there he took stock of his injuries; his ribs had the worst of the bruising, which trailed downwards to his hips and legs. He touched one of his ribs and hissed in pain - likely broken. His left shoulder was locked tightly in a spasm that travelled up to his neck, and his wrists were bleeding from struggling against the restraints which now lay on the floor next to him. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, and although Jaskier could not see his face he could feel that it was swollen and bloody. 

He didn't notice Cahir sitting in the corner of his cell, watching him, until the man cleared his throat and stood up to walk towards him. Jaskier started.

'No, no, don't, I told you, I don't know,' Jaskier pleaded.

'I think I actually believe you, poet,' Cahir said almost sweetly. He crouched down to where Jaskier was sitting, pressing his back against the wall, breathing fast. 'He left you to fend for yourself.'

'I should inform you that I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, good sir,' Jaskier said bravely, ignoring the Nilfgaardian's arched eyebrow and laugh. 'And I don't need some witcher to look out for me. Especially if what I'm getting for my troubles are your scary-looking fellows giving me another thrashing. So come on, let me go. You said yourself, I don't know where Geralt is, you're wasting your time with torturing a lowly bard.'

'Hmm,' Cahir grunted, and the noise reminded Jaskier painfully of Geralt. He reached over to lift Jaskier's chin up, surveying his injuries. 

Jaskier's eyes opened wider. He was going to be hit again, Cahir would beat him to death, he was sure of it. 'I- I didn't mean it, I'm sorry I insulted you, I really don't think you'd even own a goat, much less, well, you seem to be a fine young gentleman, you'd own a classy mare -'

Cahir placed a finger on top of his chapped lips and shushed him. ‘You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you? Such lovely eyes,’ he said, touching Jaskier’s bruised cheek, his still swollen eye. It was almost gentle. Caring. Jaskier wanted to lean into that touch. Did lean into that touch, and heard the soldier's cruel laughter. 

'So eager,' he said and pulled Jaskier closer, until Jaskier could smell a hint of smoke and mint on his breath. 

Cahir's lips touched his. Jaskier, caught unaware, recoiled, then drew back to spit in Cahir's face. He scrambled to his feet, doubling over in pain as Cahir also stood, in one graceful movement. 

A long moment passed, in silence, as the two men looked at each other. Cahir wiped the spit off his face slowly, and then that chilling smile was back on his lips. He turned and walked out of the cell without a word. 

Jaskier breathed in large gulps of air, trying to steady himself against the wall. What would happen to him now? _Stupid_ , he thought. 

He heard footsteps approaching, and then Cahir was back. With a _mallet_. 

'I tried to help you,' he said. The smooth tone was gone, replaced by a barely contained anger. His eyes flashed with rage. 'But you're a stubborn little thing who doesn't know his place. It's time to learn.'

The words made Jaskier's knees buckle. He had to think of something, or he would die in that cell.

'Please,' Jaskier tried, moving back until his feet touched what he was looking for. The metal cuffs he'd been chained to the wall with, now discarded.

'I've had enough of your pleas. You're going to regret what you've done, you filthy whore.' 

Summoning his remaining strength, Jaskier reached down to picked up one of cuffs and hit the Nilfgaardian squarely in the jaw. Cahir stumbled back and cursed, but did not lose his footing as Jaskier had hoped. 

Jaskier grabbed at the mallet, but Cahir shoved him back , hard. The bard fell and landed on his back, crying out as the breath was knocked out of him. The Nilfgaardian laughed, drawing his mallet as Jaskier scrambled to get back up.

It happened as though in slow motion. Jaskier backed into the wall, trying to stand. Cahir swung the mallet and Jaskier dodged, but not quickly enough. Pain exploded in his hip, and he heard the ugly crack of bone mixed with an inhuman scream - his own.

The Nilfgaardian drew him up by his hair, and Jaskier howled with pain as he was forced to stand. He clung to Cahir's arm, trying to claw at it. 

'Curse you, whoreson Nilfgaardian whoresonfuckingpigfucking,' Jaskier mumbled incoherently, tears now streaming down his face. He sobbed as Cahir licked his bruised, tear-stained cheek. 'He'll come for me-' 

'No one is coming for you, _poet_ ,' the Nilfgaardian said, and let go of his hair. Jaskier fell to the floor again, keening, and did not try to get back up. 'Your witcher will assume you're busy with some maiden, if he even cares to think of you. And I... I'm going to _break_ you.'

He had spent four years in that prison. 

Cahir visited him regularly for the first two, coming up with new ways to torture him. He'd bound Jaskier's broken hip at an odd angle, and Jaskier was constantly in agony while it healed. When the splint came off, it was clear that it had been healed badly, and would hurt for his remaining days. 

One night, in that second year Jaskier spent in his cell, Cahir was different when he came to visit. He came in with a half-drunk bottle of wine, and offered some to Jaskier. The bard eyed him suspiciously. 

Cahir laughed bitterly. 'Come on, you think I'd poison you, my little bird?' he said, his hand on Jaskier's neck. Jaskier drank; the wine was sweet, and it reminded him of days spent in the afternoon sun, on the coast. Where he'd asked Geralt to go with him, before - _no_. 

'We're advancing on Cintra again,' Cahir said, petting Jaskier's neck absent-mindedly. 'But lately I don't know. Is this worth it?'

Jaskier paled at the mention of Cintra. Geralt, his Child Surprise, where were they now? Did Geralt think of him? This time he could not stop himself from thinking about the witcher. Tears welled up in his eyes, and spilled onto his cheeks.

'Don't cry, sweet thing,' Cahir said, wiping his tears. Jaskier's face was a mess of old and new bruises. 'Look what I've done to you.'

Cahir's face was close to his now. Jaskier lifted his head and kissed him tentatively, with wine-stained lips. Later, he would tell himself that he'd been plotting to escape. But in his darkest moments he knew that really, he'd just wanted the pain to stop. 

If Cahir was surprised, he did not show it, grabbing Jaskier's hair and deepening the kiss. ‘That’s a good boy,’ Cahir smirked. ‘Remember who gave you this,’ he said, and roughly squeezed Jaskier’s bad hip, drawing a cry of pain from the bard. ‘I’m going into battle tonight, but maybe after, who knows. Maybe you’ll give me what I want.’

Jaskier had spent a sleepless night waiting for Cahir's return, thinking of Geralt, thinking of all the things he'd lost. He thought about escaping, then. He thought that if he played his cards right, he might stand a chance to kill that monster, instead of waiting for someone to rescue him who never came. 

Jaskier waited.

Outside the windowless cell, the sun rose and fell, and rose and fell again. Cahir did not return. Perhaps he had been wounded in the battle. Perhaps he had been killed, Jaskier began to hope. He did not know. Eventually he slept, and he awoke again, as alone as before. His bruises started fading, and no new ones were laid onto him.

After that, no one came. Jaskier was thrown some scraps and water, but the guards never spoke to him or revealed their faces. They mainly left him to rot in that cell. His skin clung to his protruding ribs, he was permanently cold, he was filthy, his hip throbbed with pain in most positions. At first he spent a lot of time sleeping, curled up against himself for warmth. He sometimes thought of Geralt, who really hadn't come for him. He cried bitter tears at the memory of sitting down with him, talking about going to the coast. But most of the time, when the memories came he bit his fist until he drew blood, trying to not think about Geralt.

In his darkest days, he shouted at the guards, trying to provoke them, yelling after Cahir, to no avail. He dug his fingers into his bad hip, a wave of relief washing over him from the sharp pain. 

Eventually, he grew tired. He did not have the energy left to yell or taunt or cry anymore, so he just stared ahead, blankly. He ignored the food and water they left inside his cell. He stopped telling the difference between sleep and wakefulness. He felt light and he prayed for death, but death did not come for him either.

At the end of the fourth year, he was released and sold as an apprentice to a merchant, who sold him onwards to the mayor of a town they had been passing through. 


	3. Yes

Geralt followed Jaskier down a narrow alleyway, where he disappeared through a partly hidden door. Geralt's medallion vibrated against his chest; there was magic in the air, and he walked carefully around, trying to find another way in. There was none, but he found a small crack in an otherwise blackened window, through which he could see inside the small basement room.

Jaskier stood leaning on his stick next to a tall, dark-haired mage. She wore an elegant green velvet cloak, and surveyed Jaskier's red-rimmed eyes with a slight air of pity and disgust. 

'Do you have what I asked for?' Jaskier said.

'I do,' the mage replied. She lifted a vial from her desk, toying with the glass, sloshing the murky grey contents around. Geralt recognised it as a powerful, expensive poison he'd seen Triss label once. Jaskier eyed it hungrily, and the mage stroked the vial's cap. 'Do you have the coin?'

Jaskier dug into his bag, removing a full pouch. 

'Good,' she said, taking it from him. 'But I'm curious. What does Navid's errand boy, formerly renowned bard, want with something as dangerous as this?'

Jaskier's mouth hung open.

'Yes, I know who you are. I put it together as soon as your witcher friend arrived in town.'

Jaskier cursed. 'We're not friends,' he spat out.

Geralt hissed quietly under his breath from his spot by the window.

'If you say so,' the mage smiled indulgently. 'Nonetheless, I wish to know what Navid is up to. What is he planning?'

Jaskier looked like he might argue, but then his shoulders slumped. 'Nothing,' he said, eyes blazing. ' _Navid_ is not planning anything. I've given you your coin, now let me have it, please.'

He reached a hand out for the potion.

The mage took his hand in hers. Jaskier squirmed at the touch, but did not remove it. She turned Jaskier's hand over carefully, examining his bruised wrist. 'I see. You wish to kill him for what he's done to you.'

For a moment he looked almost vulnerable, like he might collapse against her soft velvet cloak and cling to her. But then he scowled. 'What's it to you, witch?'

She laughed and nodded, as though understanding. 'Nothing. I'll take my coin and go. But Jaskier-'

He flinched at the sound of his name.

'-It will not bring you peace.'

The mayor, Navid, was only slightly older than Jaskier. He was tall and plump, sweating profusely as he walked through the market to shop for new ink. He was overdressed, and the sun bore down on him mercilessly. He'd looked at the merchant's stall by chance; he normally avoided the young men being bought and sold, but now cornflower blue eyes had caught his gaze. He was attracted by the younger man's thin frame, the crooked way he stood, the vacant look on his face.

'How much?' Navid had asked the merchant, pointing Jaskier out.

'Four marks.'

'He's filthy. And he looks starved. What if he dies on me?'

'I got him from Nilfgaard. Rumour has it only the strong survive their prisons. I reckon you can get some decent work out of him yet.'

'A prisoner? What if he's dangerous?'

The merchant raised his eyebrows, looking at the thin young man who was barely holding himself upwards, as if to say _come now, really?_

'I am the mayor of this fine town. Two marks, that's all.'

'Alright. You've got yourself a deal.'

‘What’s your name, boy?’ Navid asked, drawing close to Jaskier, who did not answer.

Jaskier had not spoken a word to anyone in the last year, and could not bring himself to form the sounds of his own name. He looked at Navid blankly; he had not eaten in days, and he felt light, so light, so close to losing himself. _The man_ , he thought. What had he asked?

Navid tutted once and struck him across the face with his ringed backhand, splitting his lip open. Jaskier gasped, tasting blood. He looked up to see Navid scowling, and a little girl running away, calling to her mother. 

‘When I ask a question, I expect a response,' Navid said. 'Don’t make me hit you, especially in the middle of the market. I despise these things. Understood?’

Jaskier nodded. ‘Y-yes,' he tried out. The word felt dry in his mouth. 

'That's it.'

'My name is Julian,’ Jaskier said, listening to his voice as though it were coming from someone else. He was a weak young boy, whom others hurt. Nothing had changed.

‘Good. We’ll get along just fine, Julian.’  
  
That was a lie. 

Navid was an entitled, demanding man. He made Jaskier deliver messages, clean his house, arrange his papers, wash his clothes. If something was not to his liking, he would yell and break things. Sometimes he hit Jaskier with his own walking stick. But he was fed and washed, given new clothes, he even had a bed to sleep in. Jaskier soon learned how to stay out of Navid's way, and to anticipate his needs. Or so he'd thought, too smugly, until one evening.

'Kneel,' Navid said simply, from his chair across the room. 

Jaskier stared, but there was no doubt the man was talking to him. And that he expected a response. 'I... can't,' he stuttered. 'My hip-'

'Don't make me come over there, Julian.'

His tone sent shivers down his spine, Jaskier did as he was told, lowering himself to his knees, gasping as he tried to find a slightly less painful angle.

Navid walked over with a set of cuffs, and Jaskier stared again, eyes wide. Before he had a chance to react, his wrists were locked behind his back, tightly enough to bruise.

'Fuck, you look incredible,' Navid said, taking a fistful of Jaskier's hair into his hand and tugging.

Jaskier bit his lip, trying not to make a sound as he watched Navid undo his belt with the other hand and pull out his half-hard cock, giving himself a few lazy strokes.

'Now, if you try anything, I'll beat you bloody. Understood?' 

Jaskier understood, only too well. He stood frozen, on his knees, as the short thick cock was pushed into his mouth. Navid pushed his head down and Jaskier choked, fighting for breath, eyes watering. He felt it all, but at the same time it was like it was happening to someone else. To Julian.

Navid's hand gripped his hair tighter. He shuddered, and then he pulled out of Julian's mouth, spilling his seed all over Julian's face.

They didn't speak of it for a couple of weeks. Jaskier wondered if Navid had been so drunk he had forgotten it, or perhaps Jaskier's own sanity had been so frayed he had imagined it. But then one evening, Navid was drinking again, while Jaskier prepared his papers for the following day. 

'Come here, Julian,' he said, and when Jaskier looked up he saw Navid walking over, holding those cuffs in his hand.

That time, Jaskier had struggled with all his strength, tried to slap and bite and shove, but Navid overpowered him with a kick to his injured hip. Jaskier toppled to the floor, crying in frustration.

He was lifted up and thrown unceremoniously onto Navid's bed, on his stomach. His breeches were roughly pulled down, hands pressing down on his back, holding him in place. Jaskier thrashed, bruising his wrists against the restraints, kicking his legs out blindly. Navid sat on his legs and delivered a few sharp slaps to his exposed arse. 

Jaskier yepled, his face glowing red with humiliation and powerless anger. 

He felt Navid shift, and heard him fumble with his belt. The mayor's cock pushed at his entrance, and Jaskier screamed as Navid shoved into him without any warning or preparation. His thrusts were fast and sloppy; he slipped out of Jaskier a few times and then slammed back in, full-force. 

Jaskier buried his face in the clean sheets, trying desperately to imagine it was only happening to Julian, but that time it didn't work. 

'Fuck, you're tight,' Navid grunted. 'Have you done this before? Am I the first to show you what a man feels like?'

'No,' he said coldly. _Yes._

'I'll show you what a real man feels like.'

Navid's pace quickened, sweat dripping off him onto Jaskier's back. He came inside him with a grunt; Jaskier felt the hot, sticky liquid drip down his thighs. He was shaking, but his eyes were dry. Navid released his arms from their restraints and tossed him a rag to clean up with. Jaskier took it and moved slowly, clutching his hip.

Navid poured himself another drink as he watched him. 'What happened to your leg?' 

Jaskier sucked in a deep breath. 'Somebody beat me.'

Navid laid a hand on his thigh and trailed up, touching the abused hip but not hurting. 'Did you deserve it?'

Jaskier was quiet for a long moment.

'Yes.'

Navid nodded, and drained the remainder of his wine as Jaskier continued to clean himself up, the rag coming away bloody. Navid turned over, still half dressed, his back facing Jaskier. A few minutes later a snore rang out, confirming that he had indeed passed out for the night. 

That was when Jaskier had decided to kill him. 


	4. Forgive Me

Geralt followed Jaskier back to the red house. He snuck in quietly, hiding in the dark space underneath the stairs. From his vantage point, Geralt could see Jaskier mixing the potion into a glass of wine, and he held his breath. From what he knew, the potion was highly volatile when left unmixed; a slip of the wrist and Jaskier could be dead in seconds. 

The stairs creaked, and Jaskier twitched but kept pouring until the last drop, then tossed the vial out of sight and took a few deep breaths. 

The mayor - Navid - descended, and it was all Geralt could do to stop himself from leaping out of his hiding place to rip his entrails out and hang him with them. 

Navid was only wearing a dark red robe, and he walked up to Jaskier languidly, placing a hand on his waist. Jaskier offered him the glass.

'For me? I thought you didn't like it when I drink,' he said, smelling the wine, a curious expression settling on his face.

Geralt stiffened. _He knows_. 

'I-I like to make you happy,' Jaskier said. The stutter did not go unnoticed.

'Julian,' Navid said sternly. 'You didn't happen to do something to this drink, now did you?'

'What?' Jaskier said, quickly, too quickly. 'No, of course not. Don't you trust me?' he said sweetly, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. 

Navid wrapped his hand around Jaskier's, and they both held onto the wine glass. Geralt could see Jaskier holding his breath, and he realised he was doing the same.

'Of course,' the mayor smiled. 'Come here,' he said, pulling Jaskier towards him with his free hand. Then he squeezed his wrist hard, holding the wine glass up to Jaskier's lips. 'Have a drink with me, Julian.'

Jaskier held on to the glass, trying to keep it from touching his lips. 

Geralt had seen enough. He jumped out, knocking Navid's hand into the wall, the force taking Jaskier with him. The mayor stumbled back, and Jaskier was left holding the broken glass stem. 

'Who the fuck are you?' Navid shouted. 

Geralt grabbed him by the collar and threw against the wall. 

'The guy who's going to kill you.'

The large man tried to get up, but Geralt was there; he pushed his head down, and kneed him in the face.

'Stop, please, I've got coin,' Navid cried out.

'I don't care about your coin,' Geralt growled, looming over him. There was a sour stench in the air - Navid had pissed himself. 

'Pathetic.'

Geralt drew his fist back, but froze when he left a small touch against his shoulder. It was so tentative, an almost touch, the ghost of a touch. He turned to look at Jaskier, who shook his head.

'No, Geralt. Don't.' 

'You know this guy?' Navid said. 

'You shut your mouth-' Geralt began.

Jaskier's hand on his shoulder gave the smallest squeeze. 'Leave him.'

Geralt scowled, but lowered his fist. Jaskier started to walk away.

'That's right, good boy,' Navid called after him. 'Hey, you tell this freak to get out of my house,' he screamed at Jaskier's retreating figure. 

Jaskier stopped, and Geralt saw his entire posture change. He turned around slowly, and there was an inhuman sound as he launched himself at Navid. The broken wineglass stem dug into the mayor's face over and over, long after the man stopped moving. 

Geralt watched Jaskier finally collapse to the floor, exhausted. He dropped the stem and stared at Navid's motionless body with vacant eyes. There was no emotion in them, he just stared at his bloodied face, its features indistinguishable.

'Jaskier?' Geralt tried.

Jaskier haltingly dragged himself to the opposite corner of the room, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on top of them. His whole body was shaking.

'Jask?'

Geralt waited. There was no response. He took his cloak off, and walked over slowly. He stopped at a distance and kneeled on the floor next to Jaskier, setting the cloak down next to him, not daring to drape it over his shoulders. Jaskier did not react, continuing to stare straight ahead. After a good few minutes, he picked up the cloak. He did not wrap himself in it but held it in his arms and buried his face in the soft material. 

He stayed like that for hours. 

Geralt dispatched Navid's body, cleaned his blood from the floors, made dinner. Jaskier didn't move until Geralt set a plate down next to him. Blood-stained hands shook as they lifted a few bites to his mouth, but still he did not speak. He managed about a third of the plate, and then curled up on the floor, still holding Geralt's cloak. Geralt sat himself on the floor to keep watch as he fell into a restless sleep. 

'Please talk to me,' Geralt said when Jaskier's silence had gone on for a couple of days. He couldn't take it, he was losing his mind, he was afraid that Jaskier had lost his. 'Please.'

Jaskier just looked at him, looked through him, like he wasn't even there. He had gotten up only to wash, and had not spoken a word. Geralt was not even sure that Jaskier could hear him. He was getting restless. The mayor's body was buried deep in the woods, but he had seen a few men sniffing around the house earlier. 

'We can't stay here,' Geralt said. 'Sooner or later they're going to figure out their mayor is gone, and then they'll want your head.'

Jaskier shrugged. So he _could_ hear. 

'Right, let's go,' Geralt said decisively.

Jaskier stared at him.

'We're going,' Geralt repeated. He stood, and after a moment Jaskier followed, leaning against the wall until he found his stick again.

Roach huffed when she saw them. Jaskier walked over, and for the first time since he'd killed Navid there was a flash of emotion in his eyes. That was all the warning Geralt got before a hollow, bitter laugh made its way past Jaskier's cracked lips, his throat hoarse from screaming. He gently touched Roach's neck, laughing hysterically, and leaned his forehead against her mane. Roach nudged at his hair, and laughter gave way to tears.

Jaskier swayed, his hand on Roach's neck trying to find balance as heavy, painful sobs tore through his body. Geralt approached him slowly, but Jaskier still jumped when the witcher put his hands around his shoulders, and pulled him back to hold him against his chest so carefully, more careful than he'd been with anything in his entire life. 

'I...can't,' Jaskier cried, grabbing onto Geralt's shirt with both hands, crying against his chest. 'I've wanted to so badly, ever since- but I can't, I can't ride Roach, m-my hip won't bend that way, I told them I didn't know where you went and they...they hurt me anyway, Cahir was going to, but then he - oh. They kept me in their prison, they didn't let me die, it was so cold-'

Words poured out of Jaskier and Geralt tried to make sense of them. He held Jaskier, who was shaking violently. 'What happened?'

'Nilfgaard and the merchant and the mayor and this fucking, shitty town-' Jaskier cried, and his leg buckled under him. Geralt held on, helping Jaskier to the floor and wrapping his arms against him, rocking him back and forth a little. 

'He forced me, Geralt, I'd never, I never, I wasn't strong enough, so weak, so dirty, I let him, I let him, I let him-'

Geralt moved one hand up to wipe his tears, to stroke his hair, to try and comfort him. He read between the lines of Jaskier's broken words. 

'We need to get you to a healer,' Geralt whispered.

'There isn't anything to heal, I'm not, I can't-'

'Forgive me,' Geralt said, holding him just a little bit tighter.

This made Jaskier stop and look up at him. 'No, Geralt. It's not your fault.'

 _Not his fault?_ Of course it was his fault. He'd said the words, he'd angered destiny, he hadn't returned for Jaskier-

'It's not. Your. Fault,' Jaskier said, fists still gripping the witcher's shirt like an anchor. 

Geralt rubbed Jaskier's back slowly, moving his hand in small soothing circles and forming words with his fingertips. 

'Hmm.'

They stayed like that until darkness fell.

'Geralt?' Jaskier said, eventually. 

'I'm here.'

'I'm sorry I hit you.'

Geralt's chest constricted at the thought that after all he'd been through, Jaskier was apologising to _him_. 'What?' 

'In the tavern.'

'It's fine.'

Jaskier lifted his head, and his eyes met Geralt's.

'No. It's not,' he said seriously. 

They didn't speak for a while. 

'I'm going to get that sorceress you got the poison from to open up a portal and get us out of here.'

Jaskier looked at him questioningly. 

'Come on,' Geralt said. 'Of course I followed you.'

Jaskier held onto Geralt to steady himself when they all stumbled out of the portal. Geralt soothed Roach, who was neighing unhappily. They'd landed outside a large stone house, framed by vines of small white flowers growing from ornate marble pots. The path leading up to the house was lit by candles, smelling of summer rain. And in the doorway stood Yennefer of Vengerberg.

'You brought a horse. Through a portal,' she said with a smirk. 'How... charming.'


	5. My Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, it's real sadboi hours 
> 
> Some gifs of Joey Batey that I've been inspired by [here](https://ceraunos.tumblr.com/post/190459390908/joey-batey-as-gavin-redman-whitechapel-2013?fbclid=IwAR2LCAfYdd-mNWRZRY1VPnl9mzpi_8vhxmU-E-rbrqatrtAcwnCy4kfPj8E)

Yennefer wore a flowing pale blue dress, which wrapped itself delicately around her body in the late summer breeze. She walked over to Roach, ignoring Geralt and Jaskier, to place her hand on the mare's neck. A glowing purple light shone from underneath her fingertips. 

Roach settled, flaring her nostrils and nickering appreciatively. 

'She'll be okay, no thanks to you two idiots,' Yennefer said. 'What were you thinking?'

Jaskier looked at Geralt, who looked at his feet. Yennefer rolled her eyes and led the mare to a small shelter in the garden. She waved her hand, making hay and water appear. Roach drank deeply, with a little contented sound. 

When Yennefer turned back, the witcher and the bard still stood by the door uneasily. They reminded her of two schoolboys who had done something bad. 

'Yen,' Geralt began, looking pained.

Yennefer knew that the witcher hated portals. What had possessed him to drag his horse through one? She eyed Geralt curiously. His long hair was a mess of knots and tangles; there was blood on his shirt, and he smelled like he hadn't washed in days. The bard was cleaner, but he looked exhausted and was leaning heavily against a thick wooden stick. 

'Get inside,' she said, waving them into the house. 'This should be good.'

Yennefer watched Jaskier limp into the large drawing room. 'Let me guess. Your bard has managed to injure himself again,' she smirked. 'Well, come here princess, let's see.' 

She reached over to Jaskier, who shrank away and closed his eyes. Yennefer frowned. It was rare that the bard would miss an opportunity for a clever quip to irritate her with. He didn't seem to be in any danger of bleeding out or otherwise dying, and yet he was quiet. He even looked _afraid_ of her. Something was wrong.

Yennefer turned to the witcher. 'What happened? Geralt?'

He shook his head.

Yennefer's smile faltered when Jaskier kept his eyes shut, his body tense, as though anticipating an attack. He looked much thinner than when she'd last seen him, collarbones jutting out, a fragile thing.

'Jaskier,' she said, her tone now softer. 'Look at me.'

Jaskier took a deep breath and opened his eyes. 

'I have to check your injuries.'

Jaskier stared blankly for a few seconds. 

Yennefer motioned for him to follow. She led the way to a cozy room with a four poster bed; it was warm and smelled of elderflowers, a fireplace burning in the corner. Geralt walked behind them. 

'Lie down for me,' Yennefer told Jaskier, motioning towards the bed. She sensed his hesitation. 'It's okay.' 

Geralt stood behind Yennefer. He watched Jaskier grimace as he tried to position himself comfortably, sitting up against the headboard. 

'Relax,' Yennefer said.

Jaskier's shoulders visibly let go of some tension, but he still looked ready to bolt. Yennefer sat next to him, noting his bruised wrists. A fierce wish to hold him close crept up on her as she waited for the bard to take a few breaths.

Geralt craned his neck over her shoulder. 

'Geralt, stop hovering. Bring me those pillows,' Yennefer said, pointing to a pile on top of the chest of drawers. She could have summoned them herself, but knew that he needed to feel useful.

The witcher grumbled, but did as he was told. Yennefer took the pillows from him, placing them strategically underneath Jaskier's hip and back, until he was in a comfortable sitting position, facing her. 'Better?'

The bard nodded.

'Okay. Jaskier, I know this might be hard, but I need you to show me,' she said, her hands reaching out for Jaskier's, palms upright. 

Jaskier bit his lip. 'I don't know if I can.'

Yennefer felt a twinge in her chest; he looked so vulnerable. 'You can,' she said, gently but firmly. 

Jaskier looked over to Geralt, who nodded. 'Okay.'

He took a few shaky breaths before lifting his hands and placing them on top of Yennefer's. For a few seconds, nothing happened.

And then the images came fast.

_'If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!'_

_watching Geralt walk away, leaving always_

_men outside the tavern, swords ready_

_darkness_

_stone cold floor_

_men beating him until he can't stand, then beating him some more_

_'So eager.'_ _Cahir leaning in_

_lips against his_

_and_

_Jaskier spitting in his face_

_and then-_

_pain_

_more pain than he has ever felt_

_'I'm going to break you.'_

_tears, so many_

_dreams of Geralt, never true_

_another kiss, a desperate kiss, dirty_

_hunger._

_A merchant and a mayor_

_a town watching him indifferently_

_Navid pushing into his mouth_

_his seed hot on Jaskier's face_

_shame_

_more beatings_

_'Am I the first to show you what a real man feels like?'_

_'No.'_

_Yes._

_his first time with a man leaving him bruised and bleeding_

_the wish to kill, a plan to kill_

_his bloodied hands_

_'Did you deserve it?'_

_'Yes.'_

_Despair._

Tears streamed down Jaskier's face, and Yennefer felt a sting in her own eyes, She held his hands, running her thumbs over his wrists. 'It's finished. You're safe,' she whispered to him. 

She could hear Geralt pacing slightly behind her. 'Let's get him some water,' she told the witcher. 

'I'm sorry, ' Jaskier said. He choked on a sob, gasping for air. 

'Shh,' Yennefer said, still holding his hands in hers. 

They stayed like that, suspended in time. For once there was no rush, only the slow release of hurt. 

When Jaskier's tears stopped, Yennefer slowly let go of his hands to hover hers just above his wrists. A warm golden light passed over, and the bruises there started fading. 

Jaskier moved his hands carefully, rotating one wrist with his breath held. He let out a sigh of relief. Geralt handed him a glass of water, and he drank it in big gulps.

'Can I heal the rest?' Yennefer said. 'I won't touch you, but it might be uncomfortable.'

Jaskier nodded.

Yennefer hovered her hands above his arm. The tension in his neck and shoulder, present with him since the Nilfgaardian prison, finally gave way. She continued down his ribs, soothing his injuries, old and new. Then she reached his hip, pausing before she continued.

Jaskier gave a small nod. Yennefer brought her hands above his hip, concentrating on the spell.

Light glimmered - and nothing happened.

She frowned, turning to look at Geralt.

'What is it?' Jaskier said, a note of panic in his voice. 

Yennefer strained, and then dropped her arms in frustration. 

'This one is dark. The anger it was made in, the cruelty, the pain that comes with it... I'm sorry, Jaskier. The spell won't hold.'

'There must be something,' Geralt said.

Yennefer looked at him with pity.

'There is.'

'Why are you saying that like it's a bad thing? Geralt, why is she saying it like that?'

Yennefer sighed. Geralt understood. 

'It needs to be re-broken and bound,' Geralt said. She nodded. 

Jaskier's eyes went wide. 'No,' he said in a small, broken whisper. 'Please, no.'

He curled up into a ball, shaking his head and holding himself tightly. 

'Breathe, Jaskier,' Yennefer said. 'No one will do anything against your wishes.'

The bard continued shaking his head.

'I need to check on Roach,' Geralt said and walked out. Yennefer looked at his retreating figure, the tremor in his arms visible.

Geralt brushed the tangles out of his mare's smooth mane. His heart was beating fast, too fast. Seeing Jaskier so hurt and not being able to do anything was hollowing him out. No matter what the bard said, he felt responsible. _Was_ responsible. He'd chased Jaskier away, had not returned, believed tales of a noble maiden and her unending love. And if he hadn't happened upon that tavern in that forgotten town, Jaskier would be dead. 

Roach nudged him, sensing his disquiet.

'I'm sorry,' he told her. He said the words a dozen times over, and Roach pressed herself against the witcher, feeling the vibrations of the words he meant for Jaskier.

The air changed, as though the pleas he hadn't spoken had reached the gods that he did not believe in. Geralt heard Yennefer approach before she revealed herself. 'I know you're there,' he said. 

'What are you doing?'

'Brushing my horse.'

'Is that a joke?' She looked irate.

'What?'

She sighed. 'Geralt, Jaskier thought you _left_.' 

A twitch of pain in Geralt's gut. 'Fuck.'

He started back towards the house, but Yennefer stopped him. 'He's asleep. Let him get some rest.'

Geralt nodded. He turned away, patting Roach. Yennefer came closer - lilac and gooseberries - and looked at him with a worried frown. 

'What's going on, Geralt?'

 _What's going on?_ He didn't know if he could tell her, if he could tell anyone. He left the question hanging in the air, until it became heavy, until it pressed down on him, until-

'I... It's my fault.'

And there it was, hanging in between them. 

'I should have looked for him. I thought that he got married, I thought he would be safe. I should have tried to see him, and then I would have known.'

'You found him in the end,' Yennefer said. 

'I found him by _chance_.'

He could have been dead. He could have been dead, and Geralt could have been delivering a useless monster to a nearby town, never knowing how close they had been. 

'There's no such thing as chance.'

Geralt sighed. 'My fault.'

'You know, that's convenient,' Yennefer said.

He was caught off guard. 'What?'

'If it's your fault, then you can be angry with yourself instead of feeling just as helpless as the rest of us.'

'The rest of-' he let the words trail into the cooling summer air. 

Yennefer sighed. 'I cannot heal him.'

'Yen, that's not-' He placed a hand on her arm. 'You've done enough.'

The sorceress looked pained, as though enough could never be enough for one who wanted everything. Geralt put an arm around her shoulders, not knowing what to say, because he also could not be enough for her. 

Yennefer leaned against him, brushing a greasy strand of hair away from his face. 'You look terrible. When was the last time you had some sleep?'

He looked away. 

'You'll be no use to him if you collapse from exhaustion.'

'I'm a _witcher_.'

'Witchers get tired.' _And then they make mistakes_. She didn't have to say it. 

'I'll be sure not to get killed,' he said, irritated.

'Geralt, cease your brooding,' Yennefer said, giving his arm a shove. 'Come on, I'm running you a bath.' 

He opened his mouth to argue, but Yennefer grabbed his arm firmly, pushing him towards the house. He let himself be led, melting into the strong touch. It felt good not to fight. 

The bath water was steaming hot, and Geralt made a low, punched-out sound as he eased himself into it, feeling the warmth embrace his body. 

'Good?' Yennefer said, raising an eyebrow.

Geralt wanted to say something clever back, but nothing came. He was tired, so tired, muscles aching from sitting on the floor all night to watch over Jaskier. He washed himself methodically, removing blood and grime and sweat.

Yennefer handed him a comb. He dragged it through his hair, pulling, growling in frustration when the knots and tangles refused to come undone. He felt close to coming undone himself. 

'Let me,' Yennefer said, reaching for the comb.

He gave it. 

Yennefer rubbed some sweet-smelling oil onto her hands, then massaged it into Geralt's hair and scalp. Her fingers were not gentle, applying just the right amount of pressure. She untangled Geralt's hair carefully, and then massaged the knots out of his shoulders. 

'Yen?' Geralt half-whispered. 

'Yes?'

'What you saw. How bad was it?' 

Yennefer looked pained. 

'He has suffered. He will need a lot of care, and he might never be the same.'

Geralt buried his head in his hands. Yennefer massaged his neck.

'Have you told him how you feel?'

Geralt looked up at that, a question in his face.

'It's very obvious.' 

Geralt clenched his jaw. The water was so warm, he was exhausted, Yennefer still massaged his neck and shoulders. He exhaled, shoulders slumping, feeling defeated. 

'He's been hurt. I do not wish to hurt him,' Geralt admitted. 

'You won't,' Yennefer said. She stroked his back, running a smooth hand over his scars. 

Geralt allowed himself to be touched. No one had touched him in years, not like this. He allowed himself to melt into her hands, eyes closing, dozing off.

Yennefer traced the edges of knotted, raised flesh.

'Let's get you to bed,' she said, after a while. 'I'll bring you some clean clothes.'

He grumbled in protest, but he was tired, so tired. 'Yen, I can't leave-'

'Jaskier will be fine with me for a few hours, Geralt. Come on.'

The sheets felt so cool against his skin, still hot from the bath. He buried his head in the soft pillow, smelling the fresh clean scent. _Just a few moments_ , he thought.

Geralt felt his aching body relax, felt himself sinking into the sheets. Yennefer placed a blanket on top of him, and squeezed his shoulder. It felt like floating, it felt like falling. 

Images came in fragments.

He dreamed of Nilfgaard taking Jaskier, right from their campsite on the mountain as Geralt sat with Yen. When Geralt tried to follow, he could not hear or smell or see a single trace of them. He searched the path all night, meeting only the drunk talking about his contract, over and over. 

He dreamed of Jaskier and the mayor. Geralt watched as Navid brought the wine glass up to Jaskier's lips, but when he tried to jump out from his hiding place he found that he was frozen, could not move. He watched as the wine made its way past Jaskier's lips, the poison spreading quickly through his veins.

He dreamed of holding Jaskier's broken and bruised body, of telling him his feelings, of Jaskier keeping his lips pressed shut, staring through him. 

A mournful voice sang out a melody in the elder tongue. The words were about a love so fragile, returning home. Geralt felt himself falling, breaking. 

He awoke breathing heavily, gripping the sheets. Through the walls of the house, he could hear the song still. 

Geralt followed the sound into Jaskier's room. Looking in through the open door, he saw Jaskier curled up on his side, his head cradled in Yennefer's lap. He faced away from her, crying quietly, and she had one arm wrapped around his shoulder, the other playing with his hair. She sang to him softly, full sounds at times giving way to half-whispers. She stroked his hair, his temple, ran her thumb over his brow.

Geralt entered the room silently. He lay down on the floor next to the bed and closed his eyes, letting the sound of Yennefer's voice guide him into a dreamless sleep. 


	6. No

When Geralt woke up again, Yennefer was sitting alone on the bed, watching something intently. Geralt followed her gaze and saw Jaskier in the corner of the room, a collection of silverware spread out on a towel before him. He polished a knife with fierce concentration. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, and Yennefer shrugged. 

'He's been cleaning things all morning,' she whispered. 

'Did you talk to him?' 

'A little. I made him a potion to help with his hip, but it didn't take. He's in a lot of pain, more than he lets on.'

Geralt studied Jaskier for a few seconds. He looked like he'd gotten some of his energy back, but he was quiet, so quiet, and his silence was unnerving. The witcher imagined killing all of Nilfgaard with his bare hands, just to hear the bard humming something off-key and crude. 'Hmm.'

'I'll make something to eat,' Yennefer said, louder so Jaskier could hear, and left the two by themselves. 

Geralt watched Jaskier work. He was using a soft white cloth, rubbing small but deliberate circles onto the knife handle. It was trance-like; Geralt could not tear his eyes away from the methodical rhythm of his hands cleaning the silver, making it shine. 

'Jaskier?' he said after a while. 

There was no response, and the circles continued. Jaskier ignored him completely. 

Geralt stood, carefully stretching out his body, trying to ease the tension in his back muscles. 

He crossed the distance between them, and sat on the floor next to Jaskier, picking up a cloth and a spoon. He began to rub the handle, feeling ridiculous but determined. 

They worked in silence. From time to time, Jaskier stole quick glances at Geralt. When had they stopped knowing how to be with each other? Geralt thought about what Yennefer had told him, that the bard might never be the same. He missed the teasing and the singing and the _talking_ , missed them in the way one could only miss something already gone: hopelessly. 

'You're doing it wrong,' Jaskier said, after a while. 

Geralt gave him a weak smile. 'Show me.'

Jaskier sighed and took the spoon from Geralt's hands. His fingers brushed against Geralt's, and he paused before removing his hand. 'Like this,' he said, showing the witcher how to apply just the right amount of pressure. 

Geralt followed his direction and they finished the rest of the cutlery, working side by side. When the last fork was spotless, Geralt set it down and leaned closer into Jaskier's space. 'How are you feeling?'

The bard tensed. 'Never been better, Geralt, thanks for asking. What are you even doing here, anyway? I thought you left.'

'I went to check on-' 

'Bullshit. You heard that Yen couldn't snap her fingers and heal me so you ran for the hills. Well, I apologise if this is _difficult_ for you.'

Geralt frowned; something between them had frozen back over. 'That's not... I'm not going anywhere.'

Jaskier gave the smallest of disbelieving huffs. He picked up a goblet, shifting away. 

'Jaskier, what you said before, about going to the coast.' 

'That was a long time ago.'

'It's not too late,' Geralt said.

He didn't say _for us,_ those words died on his lips. But he felt foolish still. It felt exposing, it felt like he had cut his own throat and placed himself at the mercy of one who might not have any mercy left to give. 

Jaskier paused, searching Geralt's face for something. 'Maybe I'll go, after we part ways,' he said.

'Oh.'

His witcher training had hardened him, prepared him not to wear his hurt on his sleeve, but it did hurt. He wanted to reach out for Jaskier, to bury his face in the crook of his neck and stay there. _Take me with you, forgive me, give me another chance_ , a stream of words unfolding in his mind that he could never say out loud. He wanted to tell Jaskier how he felt, but in truth he was not brave enough to say the words, would rather have fought a thousand monsters - whether he won or lost. 

'Yen can make you a portal,' he said instead.

Jaskier nodded.

'Jaskier, I-' Geralt trailed off. 'There's a place I know, where you can stay. Allow me to show you, before we part ways.'

Jaskier put the goblet down carefully. Geralt held his breath, waiting for the bard to break him.

'Okay.'

Geralt exhaled, feeling lighter.

Jaskier looked at him with narrowed eyes. 'Geralt. Don't you have monsters to kill, or something?'

'Yeah.'

In the kitchen, Yennefer was preparing a roast duck with crispy potatoes. She took one look at Geralt's face and raised an eyebrow. 

'What happened?' 

'He told me to get lost. Not in as many words,' Geralt said, his shoulders slumping forward a little. 

'He's very hurt. Both physically and mentally,' Yennefer told him. 

'I'm trying,' Geralt said. 

Yennefer sighed. 'I know,' she said, giving his arm a squeeze. She reached out for a plate, placing a duck leg and a large serving of potatoes on it. 'Here, try this.'

It smelled amazing. Geralt realised that he was starving - when was the last time he'd eaten something? He'd tasted the food he'd made for Jaskier at the mayor's house, but had felt too on edge to manage more than just a taste. He bit into a potato, savouring it. 'Mmm.'

'What will you do?' Yennefer said, making a second plate for Jaskier. 

'I'll take him to the coast, and from there we'll go our separate ways.'

'Visenna's house?'

Geralt nodded. 

'You can stay here for as long as you like, you know,' Yennefer said. 'I can portal you back.' 

'I think I'll be on the road for a while. Clear my head.'

Yennefer sighed. 'Geralt, I know you're stubborn but you're hurting too. And you don't have to be alone.'

Geralt felt trapped underneath the weight of her words, given so freely, as though she were genuinely unafraid of ever being lost, unwanted, or rejected. She cared for him, and simply told him so. 

'Yen?'

'Tell me, before this duck gets cold.'

'Thank you.'

Yennefer looked taken aback. She set the plate down to pull Geralt into a strong embrace. 'Geralt, you softie,' she said, laughing. 

'Get off,' he said in what he hoped was a menacing voice, but the giggle coming out of Yennefer told him that he'd missed the mark.

'Come on,' she said. 'Let's see if I can talk to him.'

Jaskier cleaned a heavy silver platter. His hand still carried the faint impression of Geralt's fingers against his, which he imagined burning his skin. The burn would blister and scab, then scar, and he would carry it throughout his future waking moments. 

Footsteps approached and Geralt returned with Yennefer, no doubt having relayed their conversation. She placed a plate of food next to him, and he looked at her suspiciously. A fire burned in the pit of his stomach. They were treating him like a child, and Jaskier had not been a child in a long time, not since he'd run away to try his hand at being someone else. Someone happy. Not that it had worked, in the end. 

Jaskier looked at the plate. 'No thank you,' he said, pushing it away. 

'Jaskier, what's wrong?' Yennefer said. 

'Nothing.'

_Everything._

Yennefer approached him, standing close, with Geralt following behind her. 

The two hovered over him, and Jaskier all of a sudden couldn't breathe. He saw the cell and the group of men standing over him, saw himself struggling to get to his feet and - 

Jaskier stood up too quickly, immediately losing his balance. He grabbed his stick from where he'd left it leaning up against the wall, but it slipped sideways and he fell back down into an awkward heap, hitting his elbow on the floor. 

'Fuck,' he moaned. Geralt and Yennefer almost tripped over each other to pick him back up. There were too many hands; he was struggling, he was powerless. He let out a high keening sound, cowering away from them. 

The hands let go. Jaskier sat on the floor, his back against the wall, face red with shame. 

There was a pause before Jaskier got up slowly; he stood on his feet unsteadily, holding on to the wall. 

'I can make you a better cane, to help you walk more comfortably,' Yennefer said.

Her tone was so gentle, like he was breakable, like he had anything left to break. And something in him just _snapped_. 

'Why, Yennefer?' He saw her flinch at the use of her full name but didn't stop, raising his voice instead. 'What's wrong with this one? Not good enough for you?' 

She stared at him, looking stunned.

'It doesn't match my lovely hand-me-downs?'

'Jaskier-'

'Maybe you think I'd be more comfortable having a stick that someone hasn't thrashed me with? If you make me a better one, you think I won't get raped and beaten anymore?' 

Her expression remained frozen in surprise, but tears fell down her cheeks like stray drops of rain carried by the wind.

'That's enough,' Geralt said firmly, stepping in between them.

Jaskier shrank away, covering his face with one arm, the other still supporting his weight. Geralt placed a hand on the arm in front of his face, carefully lowering it until Jaskier could look at him. His breath hitched and he braced himself.

'I'm not going to hit you, Jaskier.' 

Jaskier looked at Geralt fearfully, not quite trusting. Behind him he saw Yennefer wiping her eyes furiously with her sleeve, and everything came crashing down.

The room was spinning. Jaskier felt the worst he'd ever felt, and wished that Geralt _had_ hit him. He wished that he were dead. 

'Yen, I- I'm so fucking sorry,' Jaskier said. 'It just... hurts.'

Without thinking, he dug his fist into his hip, biting his lip when the pain came sharply, bringing everything into focus. Pain brought him relief; he kept pressing until a hand stilled his. 

'Don't,' Yennefer said. She took his hands into hers, supporting his weight as he gathered him up carefully into her arms. She pressed his back against her chest, wrapping her arms around him from behind. 'I'm sorry.'

'You were just trying to help. I'm the one who needs to be sorry.'

'It's okay.'

'I know it's not an excuse, but when you both stood over me I couldn't take it. I was... afraid.' 

Yennefer held him tightly. 'Tell me what you need.'

Jaskier thought about it. He'd spent so long wanting, and then there had been only emptiness and hunger and pain. 'Geralt said you could open a portal, to the coast.' 

'Of course. If that's what you want.' 

What he wanted? He couldn't bear to want, because to have something he wanted meant having something he could lose, and the weight of that loss would surely crush him. 

'I want to be alone.' 

'Are you sure?'

Jaskier paused. 'Yes.' 

_No_. 

Yennefer leaned in and lowered her voice. 'Geralt cares about you, you know.'

Jaskier took a deep breath, then pressed his chin on top of their entwined arms. 'I'd only slow him down, and I have nothing more to give.' 

Yennefer said nothing, but her grip tightened around his chest. 

Geralt watched from the far corner of the garden as Yennefer talked to Jaskier for a while before they said their goodbyes. She stroked his hair and hugged him. Then she gave Roach some water with a potion mixed in, to make the journey easier on her. 

The portal opened with a whirl, and Yennefer called Geralt over. She squeezed his shoulder. 'Look after yourself, you big brute.' 

He smiled at her, and then stepped through.

They landed near the old beach house. The smell of salt in the air mixed with hints of seaweed, and everything was still aside from the sound of seagulls crying and the waves crashing and retreating. Geralt took a few moments to feel his feet on the sand, finding his balance. Jaskier leaned against him a little, steadying himself after going through the portal. Roach was settled; the potion seemed to work. 

Geralt remembered the house vaguely, from when he'd been a boy, and all the paths not taken had stretched out in front of him. He wondered what it would have been like, to have stayed a boy, growing up in Visenna's arms, having someone to hold him when he was hurt. 

'This is it,' Geralt said. His hair whipped around his face in the wind. Although summer, the breeze was cool, with hints of rain. 'The house was my mother's. Her magic still protects these grounds. You will be safe.'

'Thank you,' Jaskier said. He was shaking. 

'Go inside, a storm is coming.'

'What will you do?'

'I think I'll head north. Plenty of monsters.'

A seagull swooped low, flying past them with a sharp cry. 

'Geralt.'

'Yes?'

'You broke my heart.'

The words were made of stone, a stone that Geralt had not expected Jaskier to throw. He reached for the bard's hand, the one not holding his stick, and held it in his own, pressing his lips against Jaskier's knuckles. 'I'm sorry.'

They watched wave after wave crash against the shore. Drops of rain started coming down harder, grey skies opening up. 

'Maybe I can visit you sometime.' He gave Jaskier's hand a squeeze. 

'Don't,' the bard said, removing his hand from Geralt's. The absence of it felt oddly like a presence, swallowing him whole. 

Geralt nodded. 'See you around, then.'

He turned, taking Roach's reins to lead her away. He did not mount but walked beside her silently along the beach, feeling the rain now coming down hard. 

Behind him, Geralt heard Jaskier suck in a breath, and then burst into tears. He felt the sound in his own body, chest tight, ready to explode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, sorry everyone cries in this fic i guess it's angst o'clock


	7. with everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this big pile of angst. 
> 
> Song is October by Evanescence

Once Geralt was far enough away, Jaskier let himself cry. The rain soaked him, but he watched Geralt and Roach walk away until the night swallowed them, and after that he looked at the empty beach, picturing Geralt next to him, _staying_ just for once. But Geralt never even looked back. 

The house was dusty and cold, smelling slightly of damp. It was clear that no one had lived there for many years. Jaskier wondered where Geralt's mother was; the witcher never talked about her, but he had sometimes mumbled her name in his sleep. There were so many things that they hadn't known about each other, and at some point it had become too late to ask. The floorboards creaked and Jaskier held his breath, but the house stayed silent. He would be safe there, Geralt had promised him. But Geralt had made other promises. 

_I'm not going anywhere_ , he'd said, leaning close over Yennefer's silverware collection. Jaskier had almost believed him, again. There were so many times that Jaskier had believed him, holding on to the small hope that he would know safety, he would know love. But no - it was what Geralt did. He left and left and left. 

It was cold inside, but not cold enough for a fire, so Jaskier found a blanket to hide himself in. The dark blue material was soft and heavy against his too thin body, and he sat in front of the empty fireplace, imagining flames licking at a pile of wood, Geralt and his mother warming themselves up in front of it, Geralt holding him like he had in the stables when he'd broken down. He didn't think he had tears left to cry, but still they came. He was a mess; people had hurt him all his life, and still he'd pressed on with a smile, because he'd always thought, he'd always trusted that one day it would end. 

He thought about Filavandrel's lute, abandoned when he'd been taken by Nilfgaard. Cahir had asked him to sing, once, but Jaskier would not. He closed his eyes tightly against a memory of the Nilfgaardian squeezing his throat, hurting him for his refusal. His body had been hurt and bruised and claimed, but his voice had never sung for anyone, in five years since that tavern at the bottom of the mountain. And now he was alone, and no one was coming for him, and he thought that maybe he could, just a little. 

_'My only_ _hope_ ,' he sang quietly. His voice sounded strange to him, the words pouring out in a song he'd never sung out loud, but heard inside his mind so often. 

_My only peace_

_My only joy_

_My only strength._

It was the song he'd written in that prison, when he'd thought of Geralt. He thought of singing it to him, and falling into his arms. But Geralt was gone, and so he sang it to the empty air around him. 

_My only power_

_My only life_

_My only love._

In the morning, Jaskier would clean the house, removing dust and cobwebs before airing the place out. Then he would sit on the beach and decide if his life was worth living, or if he was too tired to find hope. If he could not get back up, then he would let the sea take him.

A few miles down, Geralt stopped Roach abruptly, listening to the night. The mare snorted unhappily, and he gave her a pat on the neck, trying to soothe her. His medallion vibrated; there was something in the air. 

In the distance, past the dirt road Geralt had taken, past the sand on the beach, two young men stood at the edge of the water, holding hands. One was taller than the other, with fiery red hair, the other smaller and with mousy-brown hair that reminded Geralt painfully of Jaskier. The redhead reached over to wrap his arm around the other's waist, and they kissed slowly, casually. It was as though they had all the time in the world, as though time had stood still, bending before their desire. 

'I _love_ you,' the smaller one whispered, a fierce determination in his voice, and they were far away but Geralt heard him, witcher senses be damned. He felt like he was intruding on something fragile and private. Those words, sharp as any sword.

'I love you more,' the red-haired man said, pressing their foreheads together. 

'That's not possible,' his lover replied. 'I love you the most. I love you with everything.'

Geralt felt his insides twist. Something was still wrong. His yellow eyes darted from one man to the other, to their surroundings, but he couldn't figure it out. He saw only the beach and the sea and these two men and their foolish, loving embrace.

'Do you think your father will be very angry?' the smaller one said. 

'He won't ever find us. We're far enough away, finally. I get to wake up with you every day.'

'I'm the luckiest. The happiest.'

They kissed again. Geralt's medallion vibrated more powerfully against the witcher's chest. There was a movement to the lovers' right, which they did not register, lost as they were in each other and that stolen moment. 

And then Geralt saw her.

The vampire had moved slowly, crouching unseen, moved so close that by the time she struck, Geralt was too far away to stop her. He shouted at her, trying to distract her while he urged Roach onwards. The vampire looked up from her attack, smiled viciously at the witcher riding towards her, and sprang from her crouch to bite into the smaller man's stomach, ripping him open. The redhead tried to stop her, clawing at her, screaming, crying, trying to pull his lover back. She bit his neck so quickly, effortlessly.

Geralt pulled out his silver sword and charged at her. She was strong, but she wasn't very fast. He chased her past the two lovers, enraged when she dodged a few of his attacks. He cut into her stomach with his sword, but in the process got too close and she grazed his shoulder with a dagger. Geralt jumped back, driving his sword into her a few more times. 

The vampire lay unmoving, blood spreading across the sand from underneath her body. In death she still smiled, mocking him. What did it matter that he had killed her? She had fulfilled her nature. 

With a sigh of disgust, Geralt kicked the vampire onto her side so he wouldn't have to look at her, and hurried over to where the two lovers had fallen. The redhead held the other in his arms, bleeding profusely all over him from the wound in his neck. 

'Please,' he rasped. 'Save him.'

Mousy-brown hair, pale skin, eyes staring, innards spilling out of him. The smaller man's only movement seemed driven by the shaking of his lover's arms. Geralt crouched next to them, feeling for a pulse. Time stood still for him then, too. 'He's dead.'

The man holding his dead lover tried to scream, only to have more blood pour out of his mutilated neck. Geralt pressed down on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, knowing as he did so that it was pointless. Moments later, the redhead was still. Geralt looked at the two, so happy only minutes earlier. 

He buried them together, marking the grave with a few large stones, then washed the blood from his hands, letting the sea cleanse him. His shoulder throbbed where the vampire had gotten him, and he welcomed the pain, hoping that it would scar. He wanted to remember those two. When women asked him of his scars, he would tell the tale of two runaways and the short time life had given them together, until they'd met the vampire and run out of blessings.

_If live could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Geralt shook his head, remembering his words to Jaskier. The bard was right, he had run for the hills, that was exactly what had started this whole mess in the first place. No wonder he had told him not to visit.

 _I love you the most. I love you with everything._ The small man's words replayed in Geralt's mind, next to the image of two bodies covered in blood, together in death. He kneeled in front of the grave helplessly, unable to move forward.

The rain poured heavily at first, and then gradually slowed down, until it stopped altogether. 

A seagull cried, and Geralt started. He'd been on his knees for a while, meditating, his mind completely blank. He looked around the empty landscape as though seeing it for the first time - he had left, he'd left again. What was he doing? He stood abruptly, walking over to mount Roach.

They turned straight back around, galloping through the night, listening to the waves crashing on the shore. His medallion stayed still, but his heart was beating faster than usual. 

No light was on in the beach house, and Geralt felt panic rising up in his chest. What if Jaskier had left? He imagined the vampire finding him alone on the beach, tearing into him-

Geralt jumped off Roach's back and ran up to the house, slamming the door against the wall, looking around wildly. 

Jaskier was sitting in front of the empty fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, still crying. He struggled to stand, eyes wide. 'What?' he whispered.

Geralt marched up to the bard, grabbing his arms, checking him for injuries. He breathed a sigh of relief when he couldn't find any. 

'Geralt, what are you doing?'

Geralt couldn't find the words. He touched Jaskier's face, wiping tears away, and it was too much, not enough. He pulled the bard closer, and Jaskier tensed, but then just collapsed against Geralt's chest.

'Don't leave me,' Jaskier said, holding on, letting the witcher support his weight. 

'I'm here.'

Geralt held him, rubbed his back, stroked his neck, and Jaskier melted into the touch. The bard smelled like amber and lavender, with hints of wood. Geralt embraced him tighter, and Jaskier responded by clinging to him, grabbing onto his armour, his arms, his shoulder-

His shoulder. Geralt let out a small hiss when Jaskier's hand pressed against the spot where the vampire had cut him.

'Geralt,' Jaskier said, touching gently now. 'You're hurt. What happened?' 

'Vampire.' 

'Vampire? Where on earth did you find a vampire?' Jaskier frowned. 'You haven't even been gone that long. Let me see.' He removed Geralt's armour carefully, then moved on to his shirt. Said shirt was covered in blood, but the majority of it wasn't Geralt's. 'Did you kill it?'

'Yeah.' He didn't mention the two lovers. One day, he might tell Jaskier the story, but not tonight. 

Jaskier pressed the cut on Geralt's shoulder, drawing a huff from the witcher. The blood had dried and it was already closing, but Jaskier unsteadily walked across the room to grab a cloth, which he dabbed in water to clean the wound. When he finished, Geralt just pressed him back into his chest, holding tightly, as though the bard might run away. His now bare skin tingled when Jaskier placed a hand on his chest.

'Geralt?' Jaskier said, looking up at the witcher, bringing his face closer to Geralt's. 

'Jaskier.'

His lips hovered above Geralt's, and the witcher felt his pulse quicken.

'Can I?' the bard whispered. 

No one had asked Geralt for permission before; his breath hitched in his throat and he could not speak, so he nodded, and then Jaskier's lips were on his. It was a rough kiss, deep and wanting. Geralt kissed back carefully at first, then allowed himself to meet Jaskier's pace. They kissed until Jaskier was in too much pain to stand, and then Geralt helped him over to the bed, sitting next to him.

Geralt felt the bard tense and pull away a little. They sat in silence for a while. 

'Jaskier? Talk to me.'

Jaskier closed his eyes and took a few too quick breaths. 'I'm not- I can't...'

'Breathe,' Geralt said, stroking his back until the bard's breathing calmed down again. 

'I'm not ready.'

Geralt nodded, and turned to look at Jaskier seriously. 'Tell me what you want.'

'Maybe we could... I could kiss you again?'

'I'd like that.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, sorry i killed some twinks so geralt could admit his feelings, i guess? T_T


	8. You're So Beautiful

Jaskier woke up wrapped in Geralt's arms, with his back pressed against his chest. The witcher's hair was still wet, and a strand of it tickled Jaskier's neck. The embrace was warm, and safe - and too much. Jaskier tried to slowly extricate himself from Geralt, but the witcher stirred. Arms wrapped around him tighter, holding him in place. Jaskier felt like the weight was crushing him, and panicked. He was struggling in Geralt's grasp before he had a chance to convince himself that he wasn't about to get hurt. 

Geralt sat up and released him, yellow eyes filling with concern. He reached out to squeeze Jaskier's arm. 'You're okay.'

Jaskier felt so far from okay he did not even have the words to say it out loud. The more Geralt looked at him, the more the feeling grew, expanding inside his chest, suffocating him. 

'Talk to me?' Geralt said.

'I need a moment. I need to... need to be alone. I'll go for a walk.'

Geralt frowned, and Jaskier felt a small wave of annoyance wash over him.

'I _can_ walk, you know,' he said. 'It's just slow, and I get tired. It hurts after a while.' 

The witcher trailed a hand down his arm to lock their fingers together. 'I don't want you to be in pain.'

Jaskier sighed. 'I'm used to it.'

The witcher looked like he might argue, but then gave a small nod. 'Can I come with you?'

Jaskier shifted closer to Geralt and framed his face with his hands. 'I just need some time. Please,' he said, pressing a shy kiss to Geralt's lips. 

He walked along the beach, seeing it in daylight for the first time. It was beautiful, and more than what he'd hoped for when he'd dreamed of going to the coast. He took off his boots, feeling the sand beneath his bare feet. Summer was in its last days; a breeze was present in the air, but it was still warm enough. 

A cloud shifted, and Jaskier felt the sun on his face. There had been moments when he thought he could never be warm again, not really. The cold seemed to make itself at home deep inside his bones, his thin body shaking with the slightest of chills. Light enveloped him now, and he enjoyed the way the sand felt warm and rough underneath his feet, sometimes pinching at his skin. The waves were low, rolling gently over to the shore. And he was there, finally. 

He'd been fifteen years old when he'd first thought about escaping, heading towards the coast. It had been a far away dream, and yet he had believed in it fiercely, believed he would one day look into the distance and see only a vast expanse of water stretching out before him. He thought about that fifteen year old boy, at school, palms smarting from getting the switch for something another boy had done. His heart was about to break for the first time, and then it would keep breaking until there was nothing left to break. 

Ellyne was fire and sass, while Jaskier was shy and withdrawn, always getting punished, always being picked on by the other boys. Ellyne was loved strongly and universally, by students and teachers alike. She made trouble but was never in trouble; no one could resist her dark green eyes. Sometimes, Jaskier thought about being with her. He stole glances at her during lessons, and looked quickly away when she saw him. Other times, Jaskier wanted to _be_ her.

'You should say something, Julian,' Ellyne said one summer day, and he'd been so shocked that she'd spoken to him, that she knew his name. 

'Something,' he'd replied. 

She laughed, throwing her reddish-brown curls back. 'Funny. But you should.' 

'About what?' he said, keeping up the pretence. 

'Those boys tormenting you. It's not fair.' 

She pouted and reached out for his hand, the hand still throbbing with angry red welts, and held it for the entire time they sat in their history lesson. No one messed with him for the rest of the day, and he felt invincible. He lost himself in the warmth of her touch and the curl of her hair and her smell - she smelled of mint, and smoke. He wanted to be with her always, holding her hand in his.

And after they said their goodbyes and walked home their separate ways, the group of boys caught up with Jaskier and gave him his first real beating, already cruel at their young age, already knowing how to hurt. More would follow, in alleyways and taverns, on an empty road, in a far away prison, in a marketplace, in the home of a small-town mayor, but that was the first. 

The next day Ellyne had looked sad, and touched his bruised cheek with care. He'd looked away from her, pulled back from the intensity of her kindness and the danger which followed it in her wake. Even then, people were trying to rescue him, and he could not be rescued. 

In the autumn they ran together in the rain, hand in hand, water dripping down their clothes and their books. She sang a dirty ballad, which Jaskier did not fully understand until much later, but he was taken with her voice, pure and at the same time harrowing. The notes touched his heart, wrote themselves deep into his skin. 

'I want to be a poet,' Ellyne said. 'I'll travel the continent with my songs, never sleep in the same town twice, until some tragic illness takes me. And then they'll cry for me, and sing my songs.' She pretended to fall, collapsing into his arms. 

'Take me with you,' Jaskier said, and she kissed him fiercely, wrapping her whole body around him. 

They arrived for their next lesson still dripping wet, cheeks flushed, books ruined. Jaskier had received a switching for it and Ellyne had not, but he didn't care. The pain grounded him.

A few weeks later, Jaskier's mother died and they buried her on a cloudy morning. His father locked himself in his room, becoming even more stoic and cold-hearted. Ellyne held Jaskier in her arms, promising him that he would never be alone.

In the winter they play-fought in the snow, Ellyne rubbing his face in it, Jaskier pretending to make peace and hugging her, only to shove snow down the back of her cloak. She screamed, she ran, she filled the space around her with endless chatter and noise and the sheer fullness of her presence. He never wanted to lose her, although he would.

'You're so beautiful, Julian,' she said, and he kissed her with the intensity of someone who had never been loved before. 

In the spring, they lay together in a field of dandelions. Ellyne picked one, squeezing milky white sap from the torn stem onto her finger before placing the flower behind Jaskier's ear. She licked her finger clean, and Jaskier gasped. 

'Don't, they're poisonous,' he said, repeating what he'd heard.

She laughed, and stuck the finger from her mouth into his. 'Then we'll die together, and the gods will mourn us.' 

Jaskier begged his father to allow him to marry her, but he refused, no matter how strong his pleas. Ellyne was brazen and loud; the Viscount wouldn't hear of it. 

In the summer, Ellyne met Levilan, an older boy from a nearby village. He gave her a beautiful rose gold ring, thin and intricate, just like her. And Jaskier had nothing to give her, so he watched them laugh and kiss, holding hands underneath the sun. Ellyne sang for Levilan, a song of passion and desire more mature than the tavern drinking songs she had picked up from travelling bards. 

'You're still my dear friend,' she'd told Jaskier. She looked sincere and kind and loving, and he had sobbed so hard he thought his body would break in half with the sheer force of it. 

Ellyne and Levilan married shortly after. Jaskier turned sixteen and he was alone, despite her promise. He learned that promises were only that; a lesson he would need to learn a few more times, each more painful than the one before it. 

A year after that in the summer, Ellyne died, consumed by a fever. The town people cried for her, but no one sang her songs. 

It was then that Jaskier had started thinking about the coast, drawing endless sketches of waves. He was seventeen, and he imagined that the water would cleanse him or claim him. The songs came after, when he found his voice. There were other women then, and he was loud and confident and fearless, leaving hearts broken in his wake. 

Jaskier walked along the beach nearly every day, while Geralt hunted or slept or looked after Roach. Sometimes Jaskier was in too much pain to get very far, but he wanted to be alone, and the witcher gave him space. He did not know how to help his bard, other than to be there when he returned, to hold him when he allowed it, to kiss his lips and stroke his hair when he woke up screaming.

Geralt wished desperately to try and take Jaskier's pain away, but the bard had been clear. 

'Will it definitely work?' Jaskier had asked him, the second time they'd talked about resetting his hip. 

'It might not,' Geralt said, truthfully. 'After it heals, it could still hurt.' 

Jaskier shook his head. 'I can't go through that again. I can't take it.' 

Geralt accepted that, and didn't bring it up again. There were good days, and there were bad days. 

A good day. Jaskier's pain was bearable; he walked along the shore, picking up shells, bringing a conch to his ear and listening to the hollow sounds inside it, then repeating the process with another one. Each silence was loud, and each one sounded different. He sang soft melodies to fill their empty spaces, thinking that the departed creatures might hear him from a world beyond. 

Seagulls cried. Waves crashed. Jaskier felt a handful of sand slip out of the last conch, running through his fingertips. He sat on the cooling beach for hours, watching the sun set, feeling the ghost of that sand trickling. He let it go. He let it all go. 

In the evening, Jaskier brought a few of the shells back to the house, calling Geralt over to sit by the fireplace and hear their sounds. The witcher picked one and listened to it, scrunching his face up in concentration. 

'This one left because it was his time,' Jaskier said, telling the story he'd created for the conch's past owner. 'He was happy in the sea, and even though he's moved on he still watches over these sands.'

Geralt looked pensive. 'What about this one?' he said, picking another. 

'This one was sucked out by a creature. It happened fast, and she cried out but nobody heard.'

'Hmm,' Geralt said, remembering the two lovers.

'She was angry at first,' Jaskier continued, 'But we mustn't be sad. She isn't in pain anymore. It is the way of things.' 

Geralt put the conch down and held Jaskier's hand, rubbing his thumb over it soothingly. After a while, he picked another conch. 

'And this?' 

Jaskier placed his hand on top of Geralt's, giving it a small squeeze before taking the shell from him. 

'This one is still here. You just have to listen carefully,' Jaskier said, raising the conch up to the witcher's ear, stroking his earlobe and his long silver hair. 

A bad day. Geralt was away on a hunt for close to six days, and when he returned he called Jaskier over to see something that he'd brought with him. Jaskier hummed a tune as he walked over to look at Roach's saddlebags.

There was a familiar case, and inside it - _Filavandrel's lute_. 

Jaskier couldn't breathe. Memories rushed in all at once, of songs and taverns and adventure and the sheer joy of being Jaskier, the bard he had created to replace a shy, scared boy. He was so overwhelmed that he broke down into ugly tears, and couldn't even look at it. 

Geralt tried to hold him, but Jaskier shook him off, hiding his face behind his hands and sobbing. 

At this, Geralt looked deflated. 'Jaskier, I always do the wrong thing.'

'It's not you. It's -' Jaskier bit into his fist, breathing fast. 'Give me a moment.' 

He sat on the floor next to Roach, bringing his knees to his chest, counting in his head, trying to take a breath and then another. Geralt sat near him but gave him enough space. When the tears stopped, Jaskier moved closer and talked about that night. 

'You didn't come back. I was angry, and I sang about you. Then I called you an ass, to anyone who would listen. That's how Nilfgaard knew.' 

'You were tortured because of me.' 

'No,' Jaskier said firmly. 'Not because of you. It was my own fault.' 

'Not your fault,' Geralt whispered. 

'They were cruel to me,' Jaskier said, reaching over to pick the lute up and cradle it in his lap. 

He told Geralt about the beatings, and about his hip, and about Cahir. He felt like the shame would open up a portal and swallow him whole, but Geralt pressed him back against his chest and held him protectively. He accepted the touch this time. 

'Thank you, Geralt. I'm... I'm really happy to see it again. But I don't think I can play it,' Jaskier said, looking at the ornate instrument, touching the strings reverently. 

'You don't have to.'

They were silent together, Jaskier shaking in Geralt's arms, Geralt not letting go of him. 

'I looked for you,' the witcher said. 'I came down from the mountain to ask for your forgiveness, but you were gone.'

'I'm here,' Jaskier said, more to himself.

On most days, he _did_ feel gone. He looked at Geralt, who had found his lute and brought it back to him, and could not say this. He feared picking up the lute because he was not the same Jaskier who'd played it last, and if he strummed its strings then that Jaskier might really disappear.

Another good day. They woke up late; the sun was already high, and Geralt watched Jaskier rub sleep away from his eyes, stretching his arms carefully. The witcher looked at him and thought about spending the rest of their days together, waking up to the bard every day. He reached out to wrap his arm around Jaskier's waist.

'Good morning,' the bard said, his voice sleepy. 

Geralt kissed him, slowly at first but then harder, until Jaskier was panting and pulling him closer.

'You're not one for talking in the morning, huh,' the bard said, gasping for air, and Geralt felt a smile creeping up onto his features. 

Jaskier shifted to press his body against his, feeling the witcher's arousal. Geralt's breath hitched, and Jaskier gave him a wicked grin before touching his thigh. 'Is this okay?' 

They hadn't talked explicitly about Jaskier and Navid, but Geralt knew that the mayor had hurt him, and that the bard had said he wasn't ready. 

'Yes, but Jaskier, you don't have to-' 

He stroked Geralt through his drawers, and the witcher moaned at the contact. 'I want to. Do you want me?'

'Fuck,' Geralt whispered. 'Of course I want you.'

Jaskier slowly removed Geralt's underclothes, kissing his neck, breath hot over his ear, his hand moving from the witcher's thigh to brush his length. Geralt let out an undignified whimper, and Jaskier paused. 

'Can I?'

He was asking for permission again, and Geralt didn't think he could get harder but those words sent fire through his body; he felt like screaming with how much he wanted Jaskier. 'Gods, yes,' he choked out.

Geralt reached for Jaskier's hand, bringing it up to his lips and kissing it before taking his fingers into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat. 

Jaskier gasped, eyes wide. Geralt sucked on his fingers, enjoying the look on his face as the witcher moaned around his hand. 

'Gods, Geralt, you're killing me,' Jaskier said, his other hand tangling itself in the witcher's hair, but not pulling. 

Geralt released his fingers, a trail of spit running down his chin. 'Touch me.'

'Fuck, do you know what you look like?' Jaskier said, reaching between them to stroke Geralt with his now spit-covered hand. 'I want you so much. You're so beautiful.'

Geralt couldn't speak. Women and men had called the witcher beautiful before, but not like this. Jaskier looked at him like he was something worthwhile, something desperately wanted. 

Jaaskier stroked him hard and slow, setting a pace that had Geralt letting out a litany of tiny, ruined sounds. He threw his head back, clawing at the sheets to stop himself from begging Jaskier for more as he spilled himself onto the bard's hand.

Geralt took a few moments to catch his breath. His whole body tingled, and he felt dazed, ready to fall apart, but still he wanted more, wanted Jaskier. He reached for the bard, pausing before tugging at the drawstrings of his underclothes. Jaskier closed his eyes and nodded.

'If you need me to stop, just tell me,' Geralt said, brushing sweaty locks of hair from the bard's forehead before trailing kisses down his pale chest and stomach.

Geralt could feel Jaskier breathing fast, squirming and moaning at the touch of his lips. He pulled the bard's drawers down to his knees, exposing his hardness. 

Jaskier was shaking, his eyes still closed. Geralt paused and gave his thigh a small squeeze, waiting for him to open his eyes and look at him. 

'Don't stop,' Jaskier whispered.

Geralt licked the underside of his length before taking it into his mouth, choking on it. Jaskier half-screamed, a hand flying up to bury itself in Geralt's hair. Geralt felt Jaskier's fingers on his scalp, still wet and sticky with the witcher's release, and moaned deeply, which drew a gasp from Jaskier. Geralt leaned into his touch, sucking him faster.

'You like this?' Jaskier said, tightening his grip on Geralt's hair just a little. 

Geralt whined. The hand pulled his hair harder - not hard enough to hurt, but he could feel every part of his body throbbing with the _heat_ of it. He sucked Jaskier desperately, taking him all the way to the back of his throat, using his hands to stroke him as he wrapped his tongue around the tip.

'Fuck, oh gods Geralt, I'm going to - '

He came with a broken moan, and Geralt swallowed his seed; he felt some dribble down his chin and onto his chest, and he wiped it off, licking his fingers clean, enjoying the strangled noise Jaskier made.

Afterwards, Geralt cleaned them both up and held Jaskier against his chest, stroking his sweat-covered back lazily. 'Are you okay?'

Jaskier laughed, shaking against the witcher. 'That was... amazing.'

'Hmm.'

Jaskier propped himself to lean over Geralt and kiss him, threading fingers through his hair.

The witcher felt Jaskier smiling against his lips. 'What?'

'Geralt of Rivia likes having his hair pulled,' Jaskier said. 'I never would've guessed.'

'Shut up, bard.'

A bad day. The weather changed from summer to autumn, and with it came the pain, more intense than before. Jaskier didn't get very far along the beach before needing to sit down, that day. He could still see the house, but he was so tired, so he lay back, looking at the sky. And when the tide turned he found that he could not get up. The water edged closer, and he watched in a daze as it reached his feet. His stick was gone, taken by the waves. He would get up in a minute. Then the water inched closer, and he lay there still, feeling the cold liquid embrace, losing track of his thoughts. 

Geralt did not usually interrupt his walks, but now he was there, frowning as he took in the scene in front of him.

'What the fuck, Jaskier,' he said, picking the bard up roughly. 

Jaskier whimpered, and Geralt softened his grip. Water lapped at their feet.

'What are you doing?'

'I couldn't get back up,' Jaskier said. His wet clothes sagged, heavy with cold, salty water. 

'Couldn't?'

'Mostly couldn't. But... part of me wanted to stay there,' he admitted in a small voice. 

Understanding crossed the witcher's features. 

'Fuck,' Geralt said. 

'I'm sorry.'

Geralt held him and kissed his hair. 'Don't apologise.'

His whole body was shaking from the cold and the pain, knees about to give out. 'Geralt?'

'Hmm?'

'It hurts, please.'

Geralt made a strangled sound; he picked the bard up carefully, trying to avoid jostling him too much, and carried him back to the house. 

Inside, Geralt stoked the fire, then helped Jaskier from his wet doublet and breeches into clean underclothes. He wrapped a couple of blankets around the bard's shoulders, and sat next to him on the bed without speaking. 

'Geralt, are you angry with me?'

The witcher shook his head, watching the flames burning in the fireplace on the other side of the room. 

'You can't even look at me,' Jaskier said. 

Geralt took the bard's hand, still not meeting his eyes. Jaskier's hand was cold, and the witcher held it in both of his, trying to warm him up. 

'I'm not angry. I'm... afraid.'

Jaskier squeezed his hands. 'Of what?'

Geralt took a deep breath. 'Of losing you.'

Jaskier was floored by that. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I would've tried to stand if you hadn't come,' he said, and it was true. He needed to believe that it was true. 

Jaskier carefully moved closer to Geralt, laying his head on the witcher's lap. Geralt tensed for a moment, then moved one hand up to thread through Jaskier's hair, rubbing the back of his neck with his thumb.

'In the morning, let's walk together,' Jaskier said. 

He looked up, and Geralt bent down to kiss his forehead.

They walked together from then on, and gradually the season changed once again. One winter morning they made their way along the beach slowly, fresh snow crunching beneath their boots, leaving a trail of footsteps on the otherwise untouched path.

The cold was biting, and Jaskier's hip hurt badly. When it became too much they sat together on the snow, with Jaskier curled up in Geralt's lap, as they had many times before.

Snowflakes started falling lightly from the sky. Geralt wrapped his arms around him, and Jaskier talked. He talked about Cahir, he talked about Navid, he talked about the times that he'd been hurt and he talked about Julian. How he'd become Jaskier. 

Geralt listened and held him like he was something precious, something loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TRIED to give them some happiness okay?


	9. Blossom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this has taken so long, but _I'm bringing angsty back_  
>  \- as always, please heed the warnings and the tags because this is a rough ride, folks, and I'm updating the tags with every chapter

Yennefer came to visit when the snow was at its peak, shaking flakes from the fur of her cloak, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She smelled like spring, and Jaskier's heart felt like it would burst out of his chest with the warmth of seeing her again. He'd sent her letters, writing of the things he couldn't say out loud when the pain was too much. They hugged for a long time, icy drops melting between their bodies.

Geralt made tea, leading them over to the small table which had been moved by the fireplace. On good days, Jaskier liked to sit there and write, placing pillows and furs onto his chair to ease the pain from his hip. They sat together; Jaskier arranged himself carefully on the chair between Geralt and Yennefer, but a small wince still escaped when he sunk into the furs. He'd hoped they wouldn't notice, but both looked at him with concern. He did his best to give them a reassuring look: _I'm not quite okay, but managing_. Geralt squeezed his hand under the table. 

'I see you two have worked some things out,' Yennefer said, looking pleased with herself. 

Jaskier blushed, but didn't let go of the witcher's hand. He'd waited to tell her in person about that. 

'It's good to see you, Yen,' Geralt said. 'How are things?'

Yennefer looked at him fondly. 'Good. I think Nilfgaard have stopped looking for the Cintran princess.'

Geralt perked up at that. 'Is she safe?'

'She will be. When this is over, you two can meet again.'

Jaskier knew that Yennefer was referring to the war and not them living together, but he still felt responsible for keeping the witcher away from his destiny. Geralt had found Cirilla after leaving him on that mountain, now six years back. He hadn't seen her since coming across Jaskier in that cursed little town, and having to look after him. Guilt curled around Jaskier's throat, making it harder to breathe. 

'I'd like to meet her,' Jaskier said, his voice smaller than he'd meant it. 

'Oh, she'd love you,' Yennefer beamed. 'Wouldn't she, Geralt?'

Geralt actually smiled, a small tug at the corner of his lips. 'She'd let you dress her for a banquet and actually enjoy your fashion choices.'

Jaskier released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. He rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest was back. 'Hey, you looked very handsome as a silk trader.'

Yennefer looked between them. 'Silk trader? I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking about this.' 

'Jaskier needed someone to protect him from angry noblemen at Pavetta's engagement ball,' Geralt said, shrugging his shoulders. 'I couldn't go as a witcher, apparently.'

Jaskier smiled, remembering washing Geralt's hair, combing through the soft white locks, dressing him. He'd been so happy, then. 'You know that wasn't why I wanted you to come, right?' he said. 

Geralt looked confused. 'Why else would you put me in those ridiculous clothes and drag me to that party?'

Jaskier heard Yennefer give an undignified snort, and as Geralt looked even more confused she threw her head back, howling with laughter. Jaskier cracked up too.

'What?' Geralt frowned, narrowing his eyes when the two just laughed harder. 

'He was trying to ask you out, you big idiot,' Yennefer said, trying to compose herself. 

Geralt stared, and Jaskier could see the moment when the realisation dropped. 'Oh.'

Jaskier stroked the back his hand with his thumb.

'You could've just asked,' the witcher said, pretending to sulk.

'I tried to. Honestly, Geralt, I bathed you and massaged you and rubbed oils into your-'

'I'm still here,' Yennefer said, trying to look serious, but with a sparkle in her eyes. 

'Sorry,' Jaskier said, looking decidedly unremorseful. 

'She's heard worse,' Geralt laughed. 'Maybe someday, I'll take you to meet Ciri,' he told Jaskier. 'She can fuss over you and show you the best taverns in Cintra.'

Jaskier swallowed hard, his heart swelling at the thought of being with Geralt and his destiny. He hadn't been in a tavern since -

 _Since the town_ , he thought. A sobering thought. 

'Oh gods, she would,' Yennefer continued, oblivious. 'You'll have to sing her that one about the White Wolf, she used to love it.'

Jaskier's smile faded with an icy stab of pain in his gut. He let go of Geralt's hand to pick up his cup of tea, hoping that the liquid would push his dread back down. Princess Cirilla knew of his songs, would want to meet that bard made up of laughter and music, who could fill the whole room with joy. She wouldn't expect this, a broken man who hadn't played in six years' time. 

Yennefer moved her chair closer. 'Jaskier?'

'I'm fine,' Jaskier said, more to convince himself. 

Geralt stroked his back tentatively, and Jaskier let himself be touched, trying to push down the fear that he was not enough and soon they would know it and leave. After all, the witcher had come back for him. 

'I want to show Yen the grave,' Jaskier said. 

Geralt nodded. A few weeks before, he had finally told Jaskier about the night he'd almost left, and the two lovers. Jaskier had asked to see the stones marking their grave, and Geralt held him as he rode sideways on Roach for the first time. Jaskier had spent the night in agonising pain after that, and he'd cried bitter tears as he added riding to the list of things he'd lost for good.

 _Just leave me, Geralt,_ he'd said, curling up on his side of the bed, putting distance between himself and the witcher. _I can't even go more than half a mile out, this life isn't for you._

_Jaskier, I'm not leaving._

And true to his word, he was there the next day, and the one after, save for when he reluctantly went on contracts.

Jaskier shook his head against the memory, against the fear that at some point Geralt would decide there would not be another tomorrow that included him. 'You'll have to portal us there,' he told Yennefer.

'I'll make some food for when you get back,' Geralt said, sensing that he needed that time alone with her.

Snow fell heavily from the sky. Jaskier stumbled out of the portal, holding on to Yennefer to stop himself from falling while he fumbled with his stick. He was still getting used to its height and feel. 

'You have a new one,' Yennefer said. It was like she could see through him, notice the things that hurt most. 

'I lost the other,' Jaskier said.

It wasn't a lie, and yet. She looked at him curiously. He looked away from her. 

The large stones marking the lovers' grave were partly covered in snow. Jaskier brushed it off with his bare hands, holding some of it in his fist, feeling it melt against the heat of his skin. Pain and numbness spread. Yennefer leaned over his shoulder, and Jaskier breathed in the smell of her perfume, remembering how she'd held him in her lap and sung to him. 

'I tried pushing Geralt away when we first got here,' he said, turning towards her. 'I was... Fuck, I was so hurt.'

'What happened?'

'He left.'

Yennefer looked surprised at that. 

'He left and I just curled up with a blanket, fully intending to cry myself to sleep.' He breathed out shakily. 

'Jaskier?' Yennefer said, running her fingers through his hair. Jaskier leaned into her touch. 

'Then he came back and he was bleeding. Said he'd fought a _vampire_ , of all things.'

Yennefer snorted. 'Trust Geralt to find a vampire here.'

Jaskier laughed, feeling a little bit lighter. 'That's what I said.'

They stood for a while, looking at the stones. Jaskier leaned against Yennefer as she stroked his hair and twirled strands of it around her fingers.

'He didn't tell me the story until months later. There were two lovers, running away from destiny to be together. Geralt watched them hug and kiss and talk about their love, they were totally in love. His medallion was vibrating and he could feel that something wasn't right, but he didn't see the vampire until it was too late.'

Jaskier sighed, and fell silent. 

'What happened?' Yennefer prompted. 

'The vampire killed them both. One of them begged Geralt with his last breath to save his lover. Of course, he was already gone. Geralt buried them and put these stones here to mark their grave.'

'What a fate.'

'They just wanted to be happy, to love each other. But it wasn't in the stars. No one can run from their destiny, Yen.' Jaskier looked at her, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. 'I'm scared that I'm just running.'

Yennefer put her arms around him carefully. 'This is your destiny. You're safe now.'

'It doesn't... There are times when it doesn't feel like it. And I just want to... fuck,' Jaskier said, unable to voice it. He took her hands in his, feeling the warmth of her skin against the palm that was still cold and wet from the snow. 'Look.' 

She did, and he showed her the day he lost his stick to the waves. How he'd sat on the beach, unable to get up. How his thoughts had become so much, too much, how he'd felt crushed by that empty feeling. Knowing he would have to stand up but putting it off for later, and later. Geralt picking him up, looking so worried. 

When the memory was over he looked down at their hands, afraid she would be full of anger, or worse, pity. Yennefer waited for him to meet her eyes. 'You have a lot of strength, Jaskier,' she said. 'And you're so loved.'

Jaskier bit his lip until it bled to stop himself from tearing up, because he refused to cry again in front of her. He cleaned the blood off with his fingers, wiping them onto the nearest rock. 

Yennefer shivered. 'Come on, let's head back, there's something dark in this place,' she said, putting an arm around his shoulders. 

* * *

Spring brought with it new beginnings. Jaskier gained some weight, and the colour returned to his cheeks. He looked much healthier, almost like his old self, Geralt thought as they walked along the path leading from the house. It was warm enough to be a summer day, and Jaskier had packed a blanket and some food inside a bag, which Geralt was carrying.

The cherry blossom trees by the house were in bloom, and a gust of strong wind rained light pink petals onto them. Jaskier laughed and shook his head; Geralt pulled him close and picked a stray petal from his hair before kissing him softly.

'Geralt, you have so many,' Jaskier said. 

The witcher brushed his fingers through his hair to try and tease the petals out, until Jaskier stopped him, cupping his face in both his hands, letting his stick fall to the ground. 'You look beautiful.'

They kissed again, Jaskier moaning against him, sucking at his bottom lip. Geralt picked him up and carried him along the beach, ignoring Jaskier's weak protests and attempts to slap his arms. 

'Put me down, you brute,' Jaskier pretended to struggle and then pressed himself closer into the witcher's chest, feeling his heartbeat. 

'In a minute,' Geralt said, kissing the top of his head.

He picked a spot close to the water, but far enough away that it was dry, and set Jaskier down onto the warm sand, leaning on top of him for a kiss before pulling away so he could unfold their blanket. Once he was satisfied he helped Jaskier stand and brushed sand off him, pulling him onto the blanket. They lay back together, holding hands, looking up at the open blue sky. It made Geralt dizzy, his head spinning with the smell of fresh spring air, cherry blossoms, and _Jaskier_. He traced circles onto the bard's wrist with his thumb. 

'What are you thinking? You get so quiet sometimes,' Geralt said.

Jaskier turned his head to look at him. 'Says the guy who once fished a djinn out of a lake just to shut me up.'

Geralt also turned to face him, cherry blossom petals still clinging to his hair. 'I liked to hear you talk. I missed it.'

Jaskier propped himself up on one elbow to close the gap between him and Geralt, kissing him deeply. When they broke for air, the witcher raised an eyebrow. 

'I thought about you so much,' Jaskier said, tugging at his shirt, lightly at first but then becoming more impatient as the material clung to the witcher's body. He pulled Geralt's shirt roughly over his head, raining light pink petals, a couple landing onto Geralt's now bare chest. Jaskier bent down to blow them away. Geralt shivered at the sensation, shaking as Jaskier kissed and licked his chest and stomach. 'Thought about touching you.'

Geralt sat up, pulling Jaskier into his lap. He took a long time undoing the hooks on his doublet, slipping his hand underneath the silk chemise, tracing the scars that Jaskier didn't talk much about. 

'I thought about you too,' Geralt admitted. He'd thought that Jaskier was happy and in love, and he'd tried being happy for his friend in turn, but the truth was that he had longed for him. 

Jaskier shrugged the doublet off and pressed himself closer, interrupting his thoughts. He buried his hand in Geralt's hair and pulled, drawing a moan from the witcher, who had to pause to keep from ripping Jaskier's chemise off him then and there. He lifted it slowly instead, getting it halfway up his torso before Jaskier whined and took it off himself, tossing it to the side. 

The bard was breathing fast as he took Geralt's hand and guided it to his chest, trailing it over the thick raised scars under his ribs, and lower down until he could feel Jaskier's arousal straining at his trousers. Geralt undid the drawstrings and pushed his trousers and drawers to his knees in one go, taking him in hand. Jaskier arched into his fist, keening as Geralt rubbed his thumb across the tip. 

'Fuck, _Geralt_.'

Jaskier shifted in his lap take his trousers all the way off and pull at Geralt's. He was hard already, and twitched when Jaskier's hand brushed against his clothed length.

'Take these off,' Jaskier said, and Geralt smirked but helped the bard undress him the rest of the way. Jaskier fumbled behind him, reaching in their bag for something. He pulled out a small bottle of oil, a blush creeping over his features. Geralt stared at it. 

'Tell me what you want, Jask.'

'You,' he said with a small voice, barely above a whisper. 'I want to feel you.'

Geralt gave him a serious look. 'Are you sure? We don't have to.'

'I know. I'm sure.'

'Come here,' Geralt said, pulling him in for a kiss before turning him onto his side so that he could put his weight on his good hip. He kissed the back of his neck and his shoulder, tasting the salty beads of sweat forming there. He thought he would never tire of kissing Jaskier and tasting him, breathing in the smell of amber and lavender that was purely his. 

'Please,' Jaskier moaned, and Geralt didn't know what he was pleading for.

He pressed his chest against Jaskier's back and stroked down his arm, his torso, his thigh. His body was a mess of scars, not just under his ribs but across his upper arm, his back, and some across the backs of his thighs. Jaskier was still healing; he spoke about being tortured in his own time, sometimes after he woke up screaming, sometimes in the middle of an unrelated conversation, sometimes not at all. He squirmed if Geralt's touch lingered on any one of his scars in particular, so Geralt stroked him as though he were whole, because he was, and he was gorgeous. 

'You're killing me,' Jaskier said, moaning under his touch. 

Geralt spread Jaskier's legs carefully, lifting one of his knees up to his chest. 'Is this okay?' he said, tracing his hand lightly over Jaskier's injured hip and bending down to place a kiss onto the soft skin covering it.

Jaskier shivered. 'Gods, yes,' he said, but Geralt could feel him tense up against his chest.

'Does it hurt?' Geralt asked, brushing the bard's hip with the tips of his fingers.

Jaskier paused. 'It hurts less like this. But yes, Geralt, it's always going to hurt. It's okay. I'm okay.'

Geralt pressed his lips against Jaskier's neck. 'If you need to stop, you tell me.'

Jaskier nodded. Geralt took the small bottle of oil and poured some into his palm, coating his fingers in it and warming it up before spreading Jaskier's cheeks and rubbing the outside of his entrance. The bard tensed against him and moaned. 'Don't stop.'

'Relax,' Geralt said, kissing his shoulder and waiting for him to let go. And Jaskier did, releasing the breath he'd been holding and melting into the witcher's embrace. Geralt rubbed his oil-slicked fingers up and down his rim, then gently started pressing the tip of one finger inside.

Jaskier gasped. 'Fuck,' he whispered, breathing fast as Geralt carefully slid the rest of his finger inside.

'Don't tense,' Geralt said. 'We'll go slow, okay?'

Jaskier's breath hitched as Geralt moved his finger in and out of him, taking his time. 'Waited so long. Feels good,' he moaned, pushing back against Geralt, whose heart rate sped up at the sight of him. 

After a while, Geralt removed his finger, which drew a whine from Jaskier. 'Shh,' he soothed. 

He added more oil and pressed two fingers inside the bard, scissoring them and stretching him. Jaskier was painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach, hissing and moaning. 'Please, fuck, don't make me wait.'

Geralt smiled. 'I need to prepare you. Besides, it sounds like you're enjoying this.'

'I'm-'

The witcher didn't let him reply before adding another finger, curling them to reach a spot inside Jaskier that drew a long, broken moan.

Jaskier pushed back against him. 'Take me, Geralt.'

Geralt twitched at that. He thrust his fingers in and out of Jaskier a few more times, until he was satisfied that the bard was loose and ready for him. Jaskier whimpered when he finally pulled his fingers out, reaching for the bottle of oil. Geralt pressed more kisses onto Jaskier's shoulder to soothe him as he took the time to spread a generous amount onto himself. 

Jaskier's legs shook when Geralt lined himself up, pressing against his entrance. 'Gods, yes,' he said.

The bard was hot and tight, slick with oil. Geralt pushed carefully until he felt the tip enter him. At that, Jaskier flinched back violently, breathing fast as he tried to shove the witcher away.

Geralt pulled back immediately, trying to process what just happened. 'What's wrong, Jask? Did I hurt you?'

He tried to comfort the bard by stroking his back, but Jaskier sat up too fast and pitched forward, screaming as he put his entire weight onto his bad hip.

'Jaskier-' 

'Fuck, I need to-' Jaskier turned away, drawing his knees up to his chest. He winced but squeezed himself tighter, curling up as much as he could.

Geralt watched Jaskier gasp for air, and it was disturbing to see him suffer, knowing that he had somehow caused it. He desperately wanted to hold him and comfort him, but he didn't want to upset the bard even more. 'It's okay,' he said. 'Breathe.' 

Every breath looked agonising; Jaskier clutched at his own chest as though he was suffocating, and Geralt shushed him, reminding him to breathe, telling him that he was doing well.

After a while, Jaskier's breathing slowed down, and he exhaled shakily. 'I'm sorry.'

'Jaskier, you don't need to apologise.'

'I'm sorry,' he said again.

'Can I touch you?' 

Jaskier nodded. Geralt rubbed his arm, trailing up to his shoulder, squeezing a little. Jaskier lifted his head up from over his knees, leaning back into Geralt's chest. He stayed like that for a while.

When he next spoke, he had to clear his throat to let the words out. 'Geralt, I lived with Navid for a year and he... hurt me.'

'I know. I would've killed him.'

'I _did_ kill him.' Jaskier sighed. 'I didn't mean to. I just, I _lost_ it. The way he looked, after - I dream about his face.'

Anger curled inside Geralt's stomach, and he clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. 'That monster deserved it.'

Jaskier took a deep breath. 'He was my first. He was my first, and... he told me I was dirty. He said nobody else would want me after what he did.'

Geralt took Jaskier's hand, locking their fingers together. 'That's not true.'

Jaskier nodded. 'I know. But Geralt, sometimes I'm not okay. And I think I'm not going to be for a long time.'

'I'm here.' 

Jaskier pressed himself closer to the witcher, gripping his hand.

'Back in Kaer Morhen, one of the older boys forced me,' Geralt said. He froze, hand going slack in Jaskier's. He hadn't meant to say it; he'd planned to never tell a single soul, but the words came out anyway. 

Jaskier looked up at him, lips slightly parted, trying to form words. 'Oh, _Geralt_.'

'I'd beaten him at sparring that day, and everyone had laughed. In the night he came into my room and ripped my clothes off, then pinned me down and fucked me.' His voice sounded calm, like it was coming from someone else, like it was nothing. 

_Gonna learn your place_ , the boy had said, thrusting into him roughly. He could remember the pain, and how dirty he'd felt after, trying to clean himself up before the communal shower in the morning. The way the boy had looked at him the next day, knowing what he'd done. Proud of it. 

The shame was unbearable. It hadn't happened in a long time, but Geralt could feel himself shutting down, unable to speak. Jaskier didn't push him but slowly wrapped his arms around him and stayed like that, anchoring him. Geralt's mind went blank, thoughts and memories rolling off him, fragmented, separating. A vaguely remembered voice, the feeling of his cheek pressing into the rough sheets on his bed, memories pushed so far down that Geralt almost couldn't tell if they were his. Almost.

He sat unmoving for a while, focusing on the feeling of Jaskier's arms around him, pressing his face into the bard's neck. When it passed, Geralt looked up at Jaskier.

Cornflower blue eyes met his. 'There you are. I'm angry someone hurt you,' Jaskier said.

'He's dead now. He died during the Trial,' Geralt said. He bit his lip, but still the words came out. 'I hoped that he would die,' he said quietly, unable to meet Jaskier's eyes. 

Jaskier brushed a strand of hair behind his ear and kissed his temple, before gently lifting his chin up. 'Look at me.'

And Geralt did, despite never having felt more afraid - not of monster nor man - than to look at Jaskier in that moment. And Jaskier _saw_ him. 

'I love you, Geralt.'

The witcher blinked. 'You don't have to-' he began, but Jaskier stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

'No. Don't do that,' Jaskier said, trailing his fingers down the witcher's side. 'You don't have to say anything, but I want you to know. I _love_ you.'

Geralt buried his face into Jaskier's shoulder, arms wrapping around him, squeezing him hard. He didn't feel like he deserved Jaskier's love, but he wanted it, more than he'd ever wanted anything. 

The sun cast a warm glow down onto their entwined bodies. Jaskier thought about what Geralt had told him; the feelings of shame and guilt, and what their grip had done, to both of them. Maybe Jaskier could become the person Yennefer had seen in him - strong, able to give Geralt his entire heart. They had so many scars between them, and they all healed eventually.

He stroked the witcher's chest, smiling. 'You're going to get a tan.'

'Witchers don't tan,' Geralt said, brushing Jaskier's hair back.

'Are you sure? Maybe you just don't spend enough time lying naked under the sun.'

Geralt smirked. 'Let's go in the water,' he said, standing up. 

Jaskier stared at him like he'd grown an extra head. 'Geralt, no,' he said, laughing as Geralt offered a hand to lift him to his feet. 

'Should be warm enough.'

'No, there are _jellyfish_ in there,' Jaskier protested, pulling at his hand.

'Wrong season for jellyfish, bard.' 

Jaskier held onto Geralt, looking into his warm eyes. A more serious expression passed between them. 'I'm not sure I can swim. But we can try?'

'I've got you,' Geralt said.

Jaskier sighed dramatically. 'Fine. But if I see a jellyfish I'm screaming.'

The water was, in fact, cold. Jaskier linked arms with Geralt for support, shivering dramatically when the water barely reached his knees. He cried out as the cold waves lapped at his thighs.

'I'm going to die, Geralt, they'll find my body frozen solid-'

'You just need to get in.'

'Not a chance,' Jaskier said, laughing as he tried to step back towards the shore. 

Geralt grabbed him and lifted him up, walking through the water. 

'Put me down this instance,' he said. Geralt gave him a playful grin, and he knew it had been a mistake a second before being unceremoniously dunked into the sea. 'Fuck, Geralt! It's so cold, fuck, _fuck_ ,' he whined, grabbing at Geralt, who pressed him close to his chest and rubbed his arms and back to warm him up.

They floated farther out to sea, deep enough that the water came up to Jaskier's shoulders. Jaskier wrapped his legs around Geralt's waist, pressing their bodies together. Geralt held him, although the water did most of the work supporting his weight. The sun came down, warm but not burning, and small waves lapped at them, gently swaying Jaskier's body closer to Geralt. He didn't realise it at first, but then it hit him: for the first time in six years, his hip wasn't hurting. The relief of it was so great he sighed against Geralt's neck, tucking his head under the witcher's chin, water lapping at his cheek. 

'Better?' Geralt whispered in his ear, and it sent a shock of arousal through his body. 

'Much better,' he said, pressing closer and rubbing himself against Geralt. He could feel himself growing hard.

The witcher lifted his chin up, tracing his jaw. 'Jask?'

'I want you,' he said, thrusting against Geralt. 

'You have me.'

'No, I want you in me.'

'Jaskier, I don't want to hurt you.'

Jaskier stilled. 'I don't want to hurt you either,' he said softly.

Geralt looked like he had never considered that he could be the one to get hurt. 'Do you want to head back to the house?'

Jaskier shook his head. 'This feels really nice,' he said, resting his head onto Geralt's wet shoulder, arms around his neck. 'Like I'm floating. It doesn't hurt. Fuck, I'd forgotten what that was like.' He felt his face heating up, ashamed of what had happened to him, of how vulnerable he was, of how scared it made him. 'I'm ready, please. Still oiled up,' he laughed. 

'Are you sure?'

Jaskier nodded. 'Unless you don't want to.'

'I want to,' he said, thrusting up against Jaskier so the bard could feel him beginning to harden.

Through the clear blue water, Geralt cupped Jaskier's neck, thumbing at the base of his head, and then running his fingers all the way down the bard's spine. Jaskier threw his head back and whimpered. Geralt kissed his exposed neck, sucking at the sensitive skin there. 

'Please,' Jaskier whispered.

Geralt's pressed a finger inside him and Jaskier drew in a laboured breath, wrapping his legs tighter around Geralt's waist. Even in the water, he was still slick with oil and stretched out from earlier. Geralt soon added another finger and a third, finding that spot inside that made him moan and bite Geralt's shoulder.

'I'm ready for you.'

'Are you-'

'If you ask me whether I'm sure I'm going to strangle you.'

'Hmm,' Geralt said, rasising an eyebrow.

Jaskier squeezed at his throat experimentally, applying just a slight pressure; the witcher's eyes fluttered shut. 'Fuck, Geralt, you're breathtaking.'

He felt Geralt pressing against him again, and reached between them. Geralt made the most beautiful sounds as Jaskier guided him inside, and the bard let out a high-pitched moan as his length finally entered him. 

The witcher pushed in gradually, checking his face for any signs of discomfort. Jaskier felt no trace of his earlier panic, enjoying the feeling of Geralt burying himself inside, filling him, pausing to let him adjust to the stretch. Jaskier could've stayed like that forever, enjoying being pressed against the witcher's warm chest, the cool water supporting his weight and rocking him, the fullness of Geralt inside of him.

'You feel so good,' Geralt said, kissing his temple.

'Gods, you too. Move, please.'

Geralt took his time, with long, slow thrusts. Jaskier was so full and open and raw, keening against Geralt's neck. It didn't hurt, but he was exploding into a million pieces with how careful it was, how sensitive he felt. Then Geralt shifted his angle to brush at that spot inside him, and he cried out, twisting his fingers into the witcher's wet hair, clawing at his back, completely undone. 

Geralt gave a low moan and increased the pace just a little, hitting that spot every time, until Jaskier was whining and whimpering, totally flooded with pleasure. And then Geralt's hand was on him, sending a jolt through his whole body.

'I'm going to-'

'Let go, Jask,' Geralt whispered in his ear, breath hot against his skin, and he was coming, holding onto Geralt like he was the only thing that mattered. Geralt stroked him through it, finding his own release inside him moments later.

It took a few seconds to realise that Geralt was still whispering in his ear. '- promise, promise you, I promise,' he was saying, holding on tightly.

Jaskier's body shook and he gasped as Geralt slowly pulled out. The loss of that feeling rushed over him, overwhelming. He couldn't think, he was so sensitive - 

Geralt paled. 'What's wrong?' he said, stroking Jaskier's hair.

Jaskier tried to reassure him but he couldn't speak. He just shook his head, pressing his forehead against Geralt's, holding on tightly. It was so much, he felt like an exposed nerve, he never wanted to let go. Tears poured down his face and he just sobbed, chest heaving with the force of it.

'Jaskier?'

'Nothing's wrong, love,' he choked out. 'It was perfect, you're perfect. I'm just _happy_.'

Geralt wiped Jaskier's tears and kissed his cheek, holding him until he calmed down. It had been such a relief to let himself feel wanted and cared for, to be handled so thoughtfully, but it had also been a lot.

'Fuck,' Jaskier said, eventually. 'That was intense. I'm sorry for crying, I'm a mess.'

'Shh, don't apologise.'

Jaskier kissed him deeply, sucking at his bottom lip. 'Geralt?'

'Hmm.'

'What were you promising, earlier?'

Geralt's pupils were blown, his lips red and parted, his hair wet and messy. 'Anything. Everything.'

* * *

Jaskier hummed as he cleaned the fireplace. He was getting ready for the ending of spring, planning some redecorating once daylight began to linger a little while longer. The window was open and he could hear the sound of waves, and seagulls, and the wind rattling through the trees.

Footsteps approached outside on the path; Geralt had been away on a contract for three days, and Jaskier was eager to have him back. He couldn't wait to feel those arms around him again, to kiss his lips, to press his body against his.

He heard the door open, felt Geralt hovering behind him in the doorway. 'Well, don't just stand there. I've missed you.'

A laugh rang out. Jaskier looked around and froze.

Seconds passed. Outside, seagulls cried, waves crashed. Inside, the image before him didn't change. It was impossible, but there he stood. 

It was _Cahir_. 


End file.
